DO  N  A  L  D 

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LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

ADELAIDE  WALKER  NUGENT 


o  y 


^utograpfj  ^oetitf 


jJTHE  COMPLETE 
POETICAL  WORKS  OF 
ROBERT  BURNS y 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
1912 


v^ 


COPYRIGHT,  1S97,  BY   HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN    &    CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

"  For  my  own  affairs,  I  am  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  as  eminent  as  Thomas  k 
Kempis  or  John  Bunyan ;  and  you  may  expect  henceforth  to  see  my  birthday 
inserted  among  the  wonderful  events,  in  the  Poor  Robin's  and  Aberdeen  Alma- 
nacks, along  with  the  Black  Monday  and  the  Battle  of  Bothwell  Bridge."  So 
Burns  wrote  to  a  friend  in  the  brief  heyday  of  his  prosperity  at  Edinburgh.  When 
his  last  illness  came  upon  him,  and  his  life  seemed  a  shijiwveck,  he  told  his  wife  : 
"  Don't  be  afraid  :  I  '11  be  more  respected  a  hundred  years  after  I  am  dead  than 
I  am  at  present." 

Both  of  these  prophecies,  the  jocose  and  the  serious,  have  been  completely  ver- 
ified, for  the  25th  of  January,  1759,  Robert  Burns's  birthday,  is  a  date  to  be 
found  in  many  a  list  of  the  world's  memorable  events ;  and  now  that  he  has  been 
dead  a  century,  his  fame  lives  secure  with  that  of  the  great  poets. 

His  father,  William  Burns, ^  at  the  time  of  the  poet's  birth,  was  a  gardener  and 
farm-overseer  at  Alloway  in  Ayrshire  in  Scotland,  and  was  always  a  poor  man. 
Like  many  others  of  his  class  in  Scotland,  he  prized  highly  every  mental  accom- 
plishment, and  gave  his  children,  of  whom  the  second  son  Gilbert  was  always  the 
most  closely  identified  with  his  elder  brother  Robert,  every  advantage  within  his 
limited  reach.  Through  him  an  excellent  teacher  was  brought  to  the  village.  An 
autobiographical  letter  from  Burns  to  a  friend  acknowledges  his  early  debt  to  this 
man  for  sound  instructions,  and,  no  less  generously,  to  an  ignorant  old  woman  who 
plied  him  as  a  child  with  all  the  local  fairy-stories  and  superstitions  which  filled 
her  credulous  brain.  Thus,  he  says,  were  "  the  latent  seeds  of  poetry  "  cultivated. 
They  were  further  developed  by  the  reading  of  such  books  of  verse,  Scottish  and 
English,  as  the  schoolmaster  put  into  the  eager  boy's  hands.  By  the  time  he  was 
twenty-two,  he  spoke  of  Poesy,  as  he  might  have  done  long  before,  "  as  the  darling 
walk  for  my  mind." 

Many  things  had  befallen  him,  however,  through  his  youth.  At  fifteen  he  had 
had  his  first  experience  of  love-making,  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he  could  truly  say 
in  the  words  of  his  own  song  :  — 

"  The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O !  " 

His  bitterest  hours,  too,  were  often  the  direct  result  of  these  pleasures,  for  there 
was  more  of  impulse  than  of  wisdom  in  his  constant  dealings  with  "  the  lasses." 
One  writer  has  said  of  him :  "  In  almost  all  the  foul  weather  which  Burns  encoun- 
tered, a  woman  may  be  discovered  flitting  through  it  like  a  stormy  petrel."     In  the 

^  His  own  spelling  of  the  name  was  Bumess,  or  sometimes  Bumes. 


iv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

period  of  youth,  also,  he  formed  his  habits  of  conviviality.  Full  of  wit  and  glad 
to  escape  from  a  naturally  melancholy  self,  it  is  no  wonder  that  when,  at  seventeen, 
he  went  to  study  trigonometry  and  mensuration  at  a  village  on  the  Ayrshire  coast 
much  frequented  by  smugglers,  their  free  ways  appealed  to  him  strongly.  Many 
men  before  and  since  Burns  have  had  to  pay  heavily  for  the  very  qualities  which 
have  made  them  attractive  to  others :  the  pity  of  it  is  that,  as  in  the  case  of  Burns, 
the  tavern  too  often  becomes  the  theatre  of  actions  which  finally  subdue  the  real 
good  in  a  man  to  the  evil  about  him. 

Except  for  another  absence  from  home,  in  a  fruitless  attempt  to  learn  the  trade 
of  a  flax-dresser,  Burns  lived  with  his  own  people,  earning  like  his  brother  Gilbert 
£7  a  year  for  his  work  on  the  farm,  until  the  father  died  insolvent  in  1784,  when 
Robert  was  twenty-five  years  old.  Thereupon  Gilbert  and  he  contrived  to  enter 
upon  a  new  farming  venture  at  Mossgiel  in  the  parish  of  Mauchline.  Their  enter- 
prise met  with  very  indifferent  success,  though  Robert,  with  the  resolve,  "  Come, 
go  to,  I  will  be  wise,"  tried  hard  to  lead  a  prudent  life.  Yet  the  second  and  third 
years  at  Mossgiel  were  marked  by  the  production  of  some  of  his  most  memorable 
poems.  In  1786  Burns's  affairs  were  so  complicated  by  his  relations  with  a  girl  of 
the  neighborhood,  Jean  Armour,  that  he  determined  to  go  as  a  book-keeper  to 
Jamaica,  and  begin  a  new  life.  In  the  same  year  the  more  beautiful  love-passages 
with  Mary  Campbell,  or  "Highland  Mary,"  occurred.  To  raise  the  money  for  his 
passage  to  America  Burns  published  his  poems,  and  soon  received  £20  for  their 
sale.  Their  rare  merit  was  quickly  recognized,  and  just  as  the  poet  was  about  to 
embark  on  a  ship  from  the  Clyde,  he  received  an  urgent  appeal  to  try  his  fortunes 
in  Edinburgh  with  a  second  edition  of  the  poems.  This  jumped  with  his  inmost 
wishes,  and  his  departure  was  abandoned. 

In  Edinburgh  he  soon  found  himself  the  lion  of  the  hour.  In  the  dedication  of 
his  poems  to  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt  he  told  the  true  secret  of  his 
glory  then  and  since  in  saying :  "  The  poetic  genius  of  my  country  .  .  .  bade  me 
sing  the  loves,  the  joys,  the  rural  scenes  and  rural  pleasures  of  my  native  soil,  in 
my  native  tongue.  I  tuned  my  wild,  artless  notes,  as  she  inspired."  No  poet  was 
ever  more  thoroughly  of  his  own  country  than  Burns.  The  very  fact  of  his  lowly 
origin  and  opportunities  made  him  then,  as  it  makes  him  still,  the  more  conspicuous 
as  a  poet  born  and  not  made  to  sing.  The  second  edition  was  an  immediate  suc- 
cess, and  the  Ayrshire  ploughman  was  feted  by  all  the  wise  and  great,  as  they 
were  thought,  of  the  Scottish  capital.  He  felt,  however,  that  this  new  life  was  not 
for  him,  and,  having  tasted  of  it,  took  a  lease  in  the  spring  of  1788  of  the  farm 
of  EUisland  on  the  banks  of  the  Nith.  Moreover  he  made  such  amends  to  Jean 
Armour  as  he  could  by  taking  her  as  his  wife  to  share  his  new  home. 

Farming  was  again  a  failure,  and  but  for  Burns's  appointment  as  an  exciseman 
with  a  salary  of  £50  a  year,  the  very  necessities  of  life  would  have  been  most 
meagi'ely  supplied.  As  it  was,  the  farm  had  to  be  abandoned  in  1791,  and  the 
family,  steadily  growing,  took  lodgings  in  the  town  of  Dumfries.  As  from  EUis- 
land Burns  had  sent  song  after  song  to  Edinburgh  for  the  Scots  Musical  Museum, 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 


so  from  Dumfries  he  kept  Mr.  George  Thomson  constantly  supplied  with  beautiful 
lyrics  for  his  collection  of  national  songs  and  melodies. 

In  Dumfries  matters  did  not  mend.  A  growing  feeling  of  resentment  against 
the  world  made  the  poet  more  defiant  of  society  than  ever.  He  quarrelled  with 
some  of  his  best  friends,  and  was  generally  at  odds  with  his  surroundings.  The 
end  was  not  far  off,  for  in  1796,  after  sleeping  one  night  for  several  hours  in  the 
snow,  an  illness  beset  him  to  which  he  soon  succumbed.  His  last  days  were  clouded 
by  debts  and  the  threat  of  prison,  yet  his  friends  and  faithful  wife  did  all  in  their 
power  to  bring  him  comfort.     On  the  21st  of  July,  he  died. 

The  voice  of  censure  is  not  to  be  raised  too  bitterly  against  such  as  Burns.  It 
has  been  written  of  him:  "It  is  difficult  to  cany  a  full  cup  and  not  to  spill  it." 
Instead  of  mourning  the  results  of  human  passions  that  lacked  an  adequate  guid- 
ing hand,  let  us  be  thankful  that  with  them  was  joined  Burns's  abundant  gift  of 
poetry.  Because  he  was  so  human,  so  full  of  true  feeling,  common  sense,  humor, 
and  susceptibility  of  every  sort,  his  songs  are  exactly  what  they  are.  The  hand- 
some, impulsive  fellow,  endowed  with  many  a  rarer  faculty  than  that  "  prudent, 
cautious  self-control"  which  he  himself  honored  as  "  wisdom's  root,"  put  himself 
without  reservation  into  everything  he  wrote ;  and  if  his  life  was  not  a  worldly 
success,  perhaps  it  is  something  more  to  live  on  as  the  chief  glory  of  a  national 
literature,  and  as  a  singer  of  songs  which  stand  second  to  none  in  their  true  human 
music  and  direct  inspiration. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


FAOE     I 

POEMS    CHIEFLY    IN    THE    SCOT- 
TISH DIALECT      ...  1 
The  Twa  Dogs        ....  2 
Scotch  Drink       ....  4 
The  Author's  Earnest  Cry  and 

Prayer 6 

Postscript         .        »        .        .  8 

The  Holy  Fair       ....  9 

Address  to  the  Dell.        .        .  12 
The    Death    and    Dying   Words 

OF  Poor  Mailie  .        .        .14 

Poor  Mailie's  Elegy  ...  15 
Epistle  to  James  Smith         .        .15 

A  Dream 18 

The  Vision       .        .        =        .        .19 

Halloween 23 

The  Auld  Farmer's  New- Year 
Morning  Salutation  to  his 
Auld  Mare,  Maggie  .        .26 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  28 

To  a  Mouse 31 

Epistle    to    Davie,    a    Brother 

Poet 32 

The  Lament         ....  34 

Despondency 35 

Man  was  made  to  mourn  .        .  36 

Winter 37 

A  Prayer  in  the   Prospect   of 

Death 37 

To  A  Mountain  Daisy    .        .        .38 

To  Ruin 39 

Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend         ,  39 
On  a  Scotch  Bard  gone  to  the 

West  Indies      ....  40 
A  Dedication   to   Gavin   Hamil- 
ton, Esq 41 

-To  A  Louse 43 

Epistle   to  J.   Lapraik,   an   Old 

Scottish  Bard      .        .        .        .44 

Second  Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik  .  46 

To  William  Simpson  of  Ochiltree  47 

Postscript         ....  49 

BSpistlb  to  John  Rankine     .        .  50 


Song:    "It  was  upon  a  Lammas 

night" 51 

Song,  Composed  in  August  .        .  52 

Song:  From  Thee,  Eliza   .        .  52 
The  Farewell  :  to  the  Brethren 

of  St.  James's  Lodge,  Tarbolton  53 

Epitaph  on  a  Henpecked  Squire  53 

Epigram  on  Said  Occasion         .  53 

Another 54 

Epitaphs. 

On    a    Celebrated     Ruling 

Elder 54 

On  a  Noisy  Polemic        .        .  54 

On  Wee  Johnle    .        .        ,  54 

For  the  Author's  Father    .  54 

For  Robert  Aiken,  Esq.     .  54 

For  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.     .  55 

A  Bard's  Epitaph        .        .  55 

ADDITIONS   IN   THE  EDINBURGH 

EDITION  OF  1787      .        .        .  55 

Death  and  Doctor  Hornbook  .  56 
The  Brigs  of  Ayr.        .        .        .59 

The  Ordination  ....  63 

The  Calf 65 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid      •  65 
Tam  Samson's  Elegy       .        .        .66 

A  Winter  Night          ...  68 
Stanzas  written  in  Prospect  of 

Death 69 

Prayer:  O  Thou  Dread  Power  70 

Paraphrase  of  the  First  Psalm  70 
Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of 

Violent  Anguish     ...  71 

The  Ninetieth  Psalm  Versified  71 

To  Miss  Logan     ....  72 
Address  to  a  Haggis     .        .        .72 

Address  to  Edinburgh      .        .  73 
Songs. 

John  Barleycorn    .        .        .73 
A  Fragment  :  When  Guilford 

good 75 

My  Nanie,  O     .        .        .        .76 

Green  grow  the  Rashes,  O  76 


VIU 


CONTENTS 


Composed  dt  Spreno 

77 

"A    HiGHT.AND    LAD   MT    LOVE 

The  Gloomt  Night  is  gath- 

WAS   BORN  "       . 

104 

ering  FAST 

7S 

"Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight 

No  Churchman  am  I 

78 

that  tear" 
"My  bonie  lass,  I  work  in 

105 

ADDITIONS  IN   THE   EDINBUEGH 

brass" 

105 

EDITION  OF   1793  . 

80 

"  I  AM  A  bard,  of  no  REGARD  " 

106 

Written  in  Friars   Carse  Her- 

"See the  smoking  bowl  be- 

mitage, on  Nithside   . 

80 

fore  us"     . 

107 

Ode,  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of 

Satires  and  Verses. 

Mrs.  Oswald  of  Auchencruive 

81 

The    Twa    Herds:    or.   The 

Elegy     on     Captain     Matthew 

Holy  Tulyie 

107 

Henderson        .... 

82 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer 

109 

The  Epitaph         .... 

83 

The  Keeks  Alarm  . 

110 

Lament  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots 

84 

A    Poet's    Welcome    to    his 

To  Robert  Graham  of  Fintry,  Esq. 

85 

Love-begotten  Daughter 

113 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glen- 

The  Inventory     . 

114 

cairn  

87 

A  Maucht.tne  Wedding  . 

114 

Lines  to  Sir  John  Whitefooed, 

Adam  Armour's  Prayer     . 

115 

Bart 

88 

Nature's  Law  .... 

116 

Tam  o'  Shanter  .... 

88 

Lines  on  meeting  with  Lord 

On  sEEtNG  A  Wounded  Hare  limp 

Daer 

117 

BY  ME  which  a  FeLLOW  HAD  JUST 

Address  to  the  Toothache  . 

118 

SHOT   AT 

93 

Lament  for  the  Absence  of 

Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thom- 

WiLUAM Creech,  Publisher  118 

son      

93 

Verses  in  Friars  Carse  Her- 

On   the    Late    Captain    Grose's 

mitage        .... 

120 

Peregrinations  thro'  Scotland 

94 

Ei-egy  on  the  Departed  Year 

To   Miss    Ckuickshank,    a    Very 

1788 

120 

Young  Lady         .... 

95 

Castle  Gordon 

121 

Song  :  Anna,  thy  Charms  . 

95 

On  the  Duchess  of  Gordon's 

On  reading  in  a  Newspaper  the 

Reel  Dancing 

121 

Death  of  John  M'Leod 

96 

On  Captain  Grose 

122 

The  Humble  Petition  of  Bruar 

New  Year's  Day,  1791    . 

122 

Water 

96 

From  Esopus  to  Maria 

123 

On  scaring  some  Waterfowl  in 

Notes  and  Epistles. 

Loch  Turit 

97 

To  John  Rankine,  in  Reply 

Verses  written  with  a   Pencil 

to  an  Announcement  . 

124 

98 

To  John  Goldie   . 

125 

Lines  on  the  Fall  of  Fyers,  near 

To  J.  Lapraik:    Third  Epis- 

Loch Ness         .... 

98 

tle  

125 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Posthumous 

To  the  Rev.  John  M'Math 

126 

99 

To  Davie  :  Second  Epistle 

127 

The  Whistle        .... 

99 

To  John  Kennedy,  Dumfries 

House 

128 

POSTHUMOUS  PIECES 

102 

To     Gavin    Hamilton,    Esq., 

The  Jolly  Beggars:  a  Cantata 

102 

Macchline     .... 

129 

"I  AM  a  son  of  Mars" 

102 

To  Mr.  M'Adam  of  Craigen- 

"  I    ONCE    WAS  A   MAID,  THOUGH 

GlLLAN              .... 

129 

I   CANNOT   TELL   WHEN" 

103 

Reply  to  an  Invitation 

130 

"  Sir  Wisdom  's  a  fool  when 

To  Dr.  Mackenzie 

130 

HE  'S   FOU  "   . 

104 

To  John  Kennedy  . 

130 

CONTENTS 


IX 


To   WlIiUCB    CHAMiraKS'   SWEKT- 

Scots    Prologue    for    Mrs. 

HEABT 

130 

Sutherland  .        .        .        . 

150 

To  AN  Old  Sweetheart 

131 

The   Rights  of  Woman  :   an 

Extempore  to  Gavin   HAmi> 

Occasional  Address 

151 

ton:  Stanzas  on  Naething 

131 

Address     spoken     by     Miss 

Reply  to  a  Trimming  Epistle 

Fontenellb  on  her  Bene- 

RECEIVED  FROM  A   TaILOR      . 

132 

fit  Night       .        .        .        . 

152 

To  Major  Logan  . 

133 

Political  Pieces. 

To     THE     GUIDWIFB     OF     WaU- 

Address  of  Beelzebub 

153 

CHOPE  House. 

134 

Birthday  Ode  for  31st  De- 

To William  Tytlbr,  Esq.,  of 

cember,  1787 

153 

WOODHOUSELEE    . 

135 

Ode    to  the   Departed  Re- 

To  Mr.   Renton   of    Lamer- 

gency  Bill 

154 

TON 

136 

A  New  Psalm  for  the  Chapel 

To  Miss  Isabella  Macleod    . 

137 

OF  Kilmarnock    . 

155 

To  Symon  Gray    . 

137 

Inscribed     to     the     Right 

To  Miss  Ferrier      . 

137 

Hon.  C.  J.  Fox  . 

156 

Sylvander  to  Clarinda     . 

138 

On  Glenriddell's  Fox  Break- 

To Clarinda     .        .        .        . 

139 

ing  his  Chain 

157 

To  Hugh  Parker 

139 

On   the    Commemoration   of 

To  Alex.  Cunningham    . 

140 

Rodney's  Victory    . 

158 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of 

Ode  for  General  Washing- 

FiNTRY          .... 

140 

ton's  Birthday     . 

158 

Impromptu  to  Captain  Rid- 

The  Fete  Champetre 

159 

dell 

142 

The  Five  Carlins  . 

160 

Reply  to  a  Note  from  Cap- 

Election  Ballad   for  Wes- 

tain  RiDDELL      . 

142 

terha'         .... 

161 

To  James  Tennant  of  Glen- 

As     I    CAM    DOON    THE     BaNKS 

CONNER    

142 

O'    NiTH 

162 

To  John  M'Murdo 

143 

Election  Ballad:  Dumfries 

Burghs,  1790     . 

162 

Esq.,  of  Fintry    . 

144 

Ballads     on     Mr.     Heron's 

Epistle    to    Doctor    Black- 

Election,  1795. 

lock    

144 

Ballad  First     . 

164 

To  a  Gentleman 

14.5 

Ballad     Second  :      The 

To  Peter  Stuart 

14(5 

Election 

165 

To  John  Maxwell,  Esq.,  of 

Ballad     Third  :      John 

Terraughtie 

146 

Bushby's  Lamentation 

166 

To  William  Stewart 

146 

The  Trogger  .... 

167 

Inscription  to  Miss  Graham 

The  Dean  of  the  Faculty 

168 

OF  Fintry      .         .         .         . 

146 

Miscellanies. 

Remorseful  Apology 

147 

The  Tarbolton  Lasses 

169 

To  Collector  Mitchell 

147 

The  Ronalds  of  the  Bennals 

169 

To  Colonel  De  Peyster  . 

147 

I'll  go  and  be  a  Sodger 

170 

To  Miss  Jessie  Lewars  . 

148 

Apostrophe  to  Fkrgcsson 

170 

Inscription  to  Chloris 

148 

The  Belles  of  Mauchline 

171 

Theatrical  Pieces. 

Ah,  woe   is  me,  my  Mother 

Prologue    spoken     by    Mr. 

dear 

171 

Woods     on     his     Benefit 

Inscribed    on    a    Work    of 

Night 

149 

Hannah  More's    . 

171 

Prologue     spoken    at    the 

Lines   written    on   a    Bans 

Theatre  of  Dumfries    . 

150 

Note 

172 

CONTENTS 


Thb  Fakewell 

172 

At  Inveraray 

186 

Kl.F.GT      ON       THB       DeATH      OF 

At  Carron  Ironworks  . 

185 

ROBKKT    RCISSEAUX     . 

172 

On  seeing  the  Royal  Paxacb 

Verses  intended  to  be  writ- 

at Stirling  in  Ruins 

185 

ten  BELOW  A  Noble  Eakl's 

Additional    Lines    at    Stir- 

Picture  

173 

ling        

186 

Elegt  on  the  Death  of  Sir 

Reply  to  the  Threat  of  a 

James  Hcnter  Blair 

173 

Censorious  Critic     . 

186 

On    the     Death     of     Lord 

A  Highland  Welcome    . 

186 

President  Dundas 

174 

At  Whigham's  Inn,  Sanquhar 

186 

F,T,KGT     ON     Willie    Nicol's 

Versicles  on  Sign-posts 

186 

Mare 

175 

On  Miss  Jean  Scott 

186 

Lines  on  Fekgusson 

176 

On  Captain  Francis  Grose 

186 

Elegy    on    the    Late    Miss 

On    being   appointed   to  an 

Burnet  of  Monboddo 

176 

Excise  Division 

187 

Pegasus  at  Wanlockhead    . 

177 

On  Miss  Da  vies 

187 

On  Some  Commemorations  of 

On  a  Beautiful  Country  Seat  187 

Thomson     .... 

177 

The  Tyrant  Wife 

187 

On     General     Dumourier's 

At  Brownhill  Inn  . 

187 

Desertion      .        .        .        . 

177 

The  Toadeater    . 

187 

On  John  M'Murdo 

178 

In  Lamington  Kirk 

187 

On  hearing  a  Thrush  sing 

The  Keekin  Glass 

188 

in    a    Morning    Walk    in 

At  the  Globe  Tavern,  Dum- 

January        .        .        .        . 

178 

fries       

188 

LkiPROMPTu  ON  Mrs.  Riddell's 

Ye  True  Loyal  Natives    . 

188 

Birthday   .... 

178 

On      CoMTrtTssARY       Goldle's 

Sonnet    on    the    Death    of 

Brains 

188 

Robert  Riddell  of  Glen- 

In  a  Lady's  Pocket  Book 

188 

RIDDELL  

179 

Against  the  Earl  of  Galix)- 

A  Sonnet  upon  Sonnets    . 

180 

WAY 

189 

Fragments. 

On  the  Same    .... 

189 

Tragic  Fragment    . 

180 

On  the  Same 

189 

Remorse         .... 

181 

On  the  Same,  on  the  Author 

Rusticity's  Ungainly  Form  . 

181 

being     threatened     with 

On  William  Creech    . 

181 

Vengeance    .... 

189 

On  William  Smellie 

181 

On  the  Laird  of  Laggan  . 

189 

Sketch  for  an  Elegy 

182 

On  Maria  Rlddell  . 

189 

Passion's  Cry    .        .        .        . 

182 

On  Miss  Fontenelle   . 

189 

In  vain  would  Prudence   . 

183 

Kirk  and  State  Excisemen  . 

190 

The  Cares  o'  Love 

183 

On     Thanksgiving     for     a 

Epigrams. 

National  Victory    . 

190 

Extempore  in  the  Court  of 

Pinned  to  Mrs.  Walter  Rid- 

Session      .... 

183 

dell's  Carriage   . 

190 

At  Roslin  Inn. 

184 

To  Dr.  Maxwell. 

190 

To  an  Artist 

184 

To  the  Beautiful  Miss  Eliza 

The  Book-Worms    . 

184 

J N 

190 

On   Elphinstone's    Transla- 

On Chloris    .... 

190 

tion  or  Martial 

184 

To  the  Hon.  Wm.  R.  Maulb 

On     Johnson's     Opinion     of 

of  Panmure  .... 

191 

Hampden        .        .        .        . 

184 

On    seeing   Mrs.  Kemble  in 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Miss 

Yarico        .... 

191 

Burns 

185 

On  Dr.  Babinoton's  Looks   . 

191 

On  Miss  Ainslib  in  Chukch  . 

186 

On  Andrbw  Turner   . 

191 

CONTENTS 


The     Solemn     Lbagub     and 

Fob  Gabriel  Richabdson 

196 

Covenant       .        .        .        . 

191 

On  the  Author    . 

198 

To  John  Syme  of  Rtbdale 

191 

On  a  Goblet 

192 

SONGS    FROM    JOHNSON'S    "MUSI- 

Apology to  John  Symb 

192 

CAL  MUSEUM"  AND  THOM- 

On Mr.  James  Gkacib 

192 

SON'S  "SCOTTISH  AIRS" 

199 

At    Fbla-rs    Cabse    Hekmit- 

Young  Peggy       .... 

201 

AGB 

192 

BoNiE  Dundee 

201 

Fob  an  Altab  of  Independ- 

To the  Weaveb's  gin  ye  go    . 

202 

ence    ..... 

192 

0,  whistle  an'  I  'll  come  to  ye 

Veksicles  to  Jessie  Lewabs. 

MY  Lad 

202 

The  Toast 

192 

I'm  o'er  Young  to  marry  yet 

203 

The  Menagerie    . 

192 

The  Birks  of  Aberfeldie 

203 

Jessie's  Illness 

193 

M'Pherson's  Farewell 

203 

Her  Recoveby 

193 

My  Highland  Lassie,  0     . 

204 

On  Marriage    .        .        .        . 

193 

Tho'  Cruel  Fate    .... 

205 

Graces. 

Stay,  my  Charmer     . 

205 

A  Poet's  Grace    . 

193 

Strathallan's  Lament  . 

205 

193 

My  Hoggie 

206 

Epitaphs. 

JuMPiN  John 

206 

On  James  Grieve,  Laird  of 

Up  in  the  Morning  early 

206 

Boghead,  Takbolton 

193 

The  Young  Highland  Rover 

207 

On  Wm.  Muxr  en  Tarbolton 

The  Dusty  Miller 

207 

Mill 

194 

I  dream'd  I  lay      .... 

207 

On  John  Rankinb 

194 

Duncan  Davison  .... 

207 

On  Tam  the  Chapman    . 

194 

Theniel  Menzies'  Bonie  Mary   . 

208 

On  Holy  Willie  . 

194 

Lady  Onlie,  Honest  Lucky 

208 

On  John  Dove,  Innkeeper 

195 

The  Banks  of  the  Devon    . 

209 

On  a  Wag  in  Mauchline 

195 

Duncan  Gray       .... 

209 

On  Robert  Fergusson 

195 

The  Ploughtwan      .... 

210 

Additional  Stanzas,  not  In- 

Landlady, count  the  Lawin  . 

210 

scribed  

195 

Raving  Winds  abound  heb  blow- 

For William  Nicol     . 

195 

ing 

210 

For  Mr.  Willlam  Micetie 

196 

How  Lang  and  Dbeaby  is  the 

For    William    Cruickshank, 

Night          

211 

A.  M 

196 

Musing  on  the  Roabing  Ocean 

211 

On  Robert  Muib     . 

196 

Blythe  was  she     .... 

211 

On  a  Lap-dog 

196 

To  daunton  me  . 

212 

Monody    on    a    Lady    famed 

O'er  the  Water  to  Charlie 

212 

for  her  Caprice 

196 

A  RosE-BuD,  BY  my  Early  Walk  213 

For  Mr.  Walter  Riddell 

197 

And  I'll  kiss  thee  yet    . 

213 

On  a  Noted  Coxcomb  . 

197 

R  ATT  LIN,    RoARIN    WiLLIE 

213 

On  Capt.  Lascelles 

197 

Where,    braving    Angry    Win- 

On a  Galloway  Laird 

197 

ter's  Storms     .... 

214 

On    Wm.    Graham    of    Moss- 

0  Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  Day    . 

214 

KNOWE 

198 

Clarinda,  Mistress  of  my  Soul 

215 

On  John  Bushby  of  Tinwald 

The  Winter  it  is  Past 

215 

Downs         .... 

198 

I  LOVE  MY  Love  in  secret  . 

216 

On  a  Suicide     .        .        .        . 

198 

Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbab 

216 

On  a  Swearing  Coxcomb    . 

198 

Highland  Harry    . 

216 

On  an  Innkeeper  nicknamed 

The  Tailor  fell  thro'  the  Bed  217 

"  the  Marquis  "    . 

198 

Ay  Waukin,  0     .        .        .        . 

217 

On  Gbizzel  Gbimmb     . 

198 

Beware  o'  Bonie  Ann  . 

217 

CONTENTS 


Laddie,  lib  near  mk  .  218 

The  Gakd'nek  wi'  his  Paedle  .  218 
On  a  Bank  or  Flowers  .  .  218 
The  Day  ketitrnb       .  •      219 

My   Love,    she  's    but    a    Lassie 

yet 219 

Jamie,  comb  tbt  me  .  .  .  219 
The  Silveb  Tassib  .  .  .  .220 
The  Lazy  Mist  ....  220 
The  Captain's  Lady  .  .  .  220 
Of  a'  the  Airts  ....  221 
Carl,  an  the  Kxng  come  .  .  221 
Whistle  o'er  the  Lavk  o't  .  221 
O,  WERE  I  on  Pabnassus  Hill  .  222 
The  Captive  Ribband  .  .  222 
There  's  a  Youth  en  this  City  .  222 
My  Heart  's  in  the  Highlands  .  223 
John  Anderson  my  Jo  .-  '     .  22.3 

Awa',  Whigs,  awa'  .  .  .  223 
Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes  .  224 
O,  Merry  hae  I  been  .  .  224 
A  Mother's  Lament  .  .  .  22.5 
The  White  Cockade  .  .  .  225 
TBffi  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle  .  22.5 

The  Rantin  Doo,  the  Daddie  o't  226 
Thou  Lingerinq  Stab         .        .      226 

Eppie  Adair 227 

The  Battle  of  Sherramuir  .  227 
Young  Jockie  was  the  Blythest 

Lad 228 

A  Waukrife  Minnie  .  .  .  228 
Tho'  Women's  Minds  .  .  .228 
Willie  brew'd  a  Peck  o'  Maut       229 

KlLLIECBANKIE  ....         229 

The  Blue-eyed  Lassie  .  .  .  230 
The  Banks  of  Nith    .        .        .230 

Tam  Glen 230 

Cbaioiebubn  Wood  .  .  .  231 
Frae  the  Friends  and  Land  I  lovb  231 

0  John,  come  kiss  me  now  .  .  2.32 
Cock  up  your  Beaver  .  .  232 
My  Tocher  's  the  Jewel  .  .  232 
GuiDWiFE,  count  the  Lawin  .  232 
There'll  never  be   Peace  till 

Jamie  comes  hame  .  .  .  233 
What  can  a  Young  Lassie  .  2.33 
The  Bonte  Lad  that's  far  awa    2.34 

1  do  confess  thou  art  sae  Fair  234 
Sensibility  how  Charming  .  .  2.34 
Yon  Wild  Mossy  Mountains  .  235 
I  hae  been  at  Crookieden  .  .  235 
It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  Bonie  Face  235 
My  EIppib  Macnab  .        .      236 


Wha  is  that  at  jct  Boweb  Doob  233 
Bonie  Wee  Thing  ....  236 
The  Tither  Mokn       .        .        ,      237 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 237 

Lovely  Da  vies  ....  237 
The  Weary  Pund  o'  Tow  .  .  238 
I  hae  a  Wife  o'  my  ain  .  .  238 
When  she  cam  ben,  she  bobbbd  .  2.39 
O.  for  Ane-an-twenty,  Tam  .  239 
O,  Kenmure  's  on  and  awa,  Willie  239 
O,  leeze  me  on  my  Spinnin- Wheel  240 
My  Collier  Laddie  .  .  -  240 
Nithsdale's  Welcome  Hame  .  241 
In  Simmer,   when  the  Hay  was 

MAWN 241 

Fair  Eliza 242 

Ye  Jacobites  by  Namb  .        .        .  242 

The  Posie 242 

The  Banks  o'  Doon  .  .  .  243 
Willie  Wastlb  ....  244 
Lady  Mary  Ann  ....  244 
Such  a  Parcel  of  Rogues  in  a 

Nation 245 

Kellyburn  Braes  ....  245 
The  Slave's  Lament  .  .  .  246 
The  Song  of  Death  .  .  .  246 
Sweet  Afton       ....      247 

Bonie  Bell 247 

The  Gallant  Weaves  .  •  248 
Hey,  ca'  thro'  ....  248 
O,  CAN  YE  labour  Lea  .  .  248 
The  Deuk  's  dang  o'er  my  Daddie  249 
She  's  Fair  and  Fause  .  .  .  249 
The  Deil  's  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman  249 
The  Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness  250 
A  Red,  Red  Rose  .  .  .250 
As    I    stood    by    Yon    Roofless 

Tower 250 

O,   AN   YE   WERE   DeAD,   GuEDMAN        251 

AuLD  Lang  Syne  .  .  .  251 
Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee  .  252 
Had  I  THE  Wyte  .  .  .  252 
CoMiN  thro'  the  Rye  .  .  .  252 
Young  Jamie  ....  253 
Out  over  the  Forth  .  .  .  2.58 
Wantonness  for  Evermaib  .  253 
Charlie  he's  my  Darling  .  .  253 
The  Lass  o'  Ecclefechan  .  .  254 
The  Cooper  o'  Cuddy  .  .  .  254 
For  the  Sake  o'  Somebody  .  2.54 
The  Cardin  o't  .  .  .  •  255 
There  's  Three  Tbub  Gun>  Fel- 
lows  ...                  •  •      255 


CONTENTS 


Sab    FiiAXEN    were    her    Ring- 

T.TT.TH         .....  255 

The  Lass  that  made  the  Bed  .  256 
Sab  fab  awa  ....  256 
The  Reel  o'  Stumpie  .  257 

I  'll  ay  ca'  in  by  Yon  Town  .  257 
O,  WAT  YE  wha's  in  Yon  Town  .  257 
Wherefore    sighing    art    thou, 

Phillis 258 

O  May,  thy  Morn  ....  258 
As  I  CAME  o'er  the  Cairney  MotJNT  258 
Highland  Laddie  .  .  .  259 
Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie  ?  .  .  259 
Lovely  Polly  Stewart  .  .  259 
The  Highland  Balou  .  .  .  260 
Bannocks  o'  Bear  Meal  .  .  260 
Wae  is  my  Heart  ....  260 
Here's  his  Health  in  Water  260 
The  Winter  of  Life  .        .      261 

The  Tailor 261 

There  grows  a  Bonie  Brier  Bush  261 
Here  's  to  thy  HIealth,  my  Bonie 

Lass 262 

It  was  a'  for  our  Rightfu'  King  262 
The  Highland  Widow's  Lament  263 
Thou  Gloomy  December  .  .  263 
My  Peggy's  Face,  my  Peggy's  Form  263 
O,  steer  her  up,  an'  haud  her 

Gaun 264 

Wee  Willie  Gray  .  .  .  .264 
We're  a'  noddin  .  .  .  264 
O,  ay  my  Wdtb  she  dang  me       .  265 

Scroggam 265 

O,  GuiD  Ale  comes  .  .  .  265 
Robin  shure  in  Hairst  .  .  266 
Does    Haughty    Gaul    Invasion 

threat  ? 266 

O,  once  I  lov'd  a  Bonie  Lass  .  266 
My  Lord  a-hunting  .  .  .  267 
Sweetest  May  ....  268 
Meg  o'  the  Mill  ....  268 
Jockie's  ta'en  the  Parting  Kiss  268 
O,  LAY  thy  Loof  in  MINE,  Lass  269 
Cauld  is  the  E'enin  Blast  .  269 
There  was  a  Bonie  Lass  .  .  269 
There  's  News,  Lasses,  News   .      269 

O,    that    I   HAD    ne'er    BEEN    MAR- 
RIED     270 

Mally  's  Meek,  Mally  's  Sweet  .  270 
Wandering  Willie  .  .  .  270 
Bbaw  Lads  o'  Galla  Water  .  271 
Auld  Rob  Morris  .  .  .  271 
Open  the  Door  to  me,  0  .  271 


When  Wild  War's  Deadly  Blast  272 
Duncan  Gray  ....  272 
Deluded  Swain,  the  Pleasure  .  273 
Here  is  the  Glen  .  .  .  273 
Let  not  Women  e'er  comi'lain  .  273 
Lord  Gregory  ....  274 
O  Poortith  Cauld  ....  274 
O,  stay.  Sweet  Wabbling  U'ood- 

LARK 275 

Saw  te  Bonie  Lesley    .  .  275 

Sweet  fa's  the  Eve  .        .        .      276 

Young  Jessie 276 

Adown  Winding  Nith  .  .  276 
A  Lass  wi'  a  Tocher  .  .  .  277 
Blythe  hae  I  been  on  Yon  Hill  277 
By  Allan  Stream  .  .  .  278 
Canst  thou  leave  me  .  .  .  278 
Come,  let  me  take  thbe  .  .  279 
Contented  wi'  Little  .  .  .  279 
Farewell,  thou  Stream    .        .      279 

Had  I  A  Cave 280 

Here  's  a  Health  .  .  .  280 
How  Cruel  are  the  Parents  .  281 
Husband,  Husband,   cease   your 

Strife 281 

It  was  the  Charming  Month  .  281 
Last  May  a  Braw  Wooer  .  282 
My  Nanie  's  awa  ....  283 
Now  Rosy  May  ....  283 
Now  Spring  has  clad  .  .  .  284 
O,  this  is  no  my  AiN  Lassie     .      284 

O,    WAT    YE    WHA    THAT   LO'ES    ME      .    284 

Scots,  wha  hae  ....      285 
Their    Groves    o'    Sweet     Myr- 
tle       286 

Thine  am  I 287 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever.  Jamie  287 
Highland  Mary  ....  287 
My  Chloris,  Mark  .        .        .  288 

Fairest  Maid  on  Devon  Banks  288 
Lassie  wi'  the  Lint-white  Locks  289 
Long,  long  the  Night  .  .  290 
Logan  Water  ....  290 
Yon  Rosy  Brier.  .  .  .291 
Where  are  the  Joys  .  .  .  291 
Behold  the  Hour  .  .  .  292 
Forlorn,  my  Lo%te  .  .  .  292 
Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes 

(second  set)  ....  292 
How  can  my  Poor  Heart  .  293 
is  there  for  honest  poverty  .  294 
Mark  Yonder  Pomp  .  .  .  294 
0,  let  me  in  this  ae  nlqht         .  295 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


O  Philly,  Happy  bk  that  Day  .  295 
o,  were  my  lovk       .        .        .      296 

Sleep'st  thou 297 

There  was  a  Las3      .        .        .      297 

The  Lea-Rig 298 

My  Wife  's  a  Winsome  Wee  Thing  298 
Maby  Mobison     ....      299 

MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS  .  .  .299 
A  Ruined  Farmeb  .  .  .  300 
Montgomerie's  Peggy  .  .  .  300 
The  Lass  of  Cessnock  Banks  301 
Tho'  Fickle  Fortune  .  .  302 
Raging  Fortune  ....  302 
My  Father  was  a  Farmer  .  302 
O  LEAVE  Novels  ....  303 
The  Mauchline  Lady  .  .  303 
One  Night  as  I  did  wander  .  304 
There  was  a  Lad  .  .  .  304 
Will  ye   go   to   the   Indies,   my 

Mary 304 

Her  Flowing  Locks  .  .  .  305 
The  Lass  o'  Ballochmylb  .  .  305 
The  Night  was  Still        .        .      306 

Masonic  Song 306 

The  Bonie  Moor-hen  .  .  306 
Here  's  a  Bottle  ....  307 
The  Bonie  Lass  of  Albante  .  307 
Amano  the  Trees  ....  308 
The  Chevalier's  Lament  .  .  808 
Yestreen  I  had  a  Pint  o'  Wine  .308 
Sweet  are  the  Banks  .  .  .  309 
Ye  Flowery  Banks    .        .        .      310 

Caledonla. 310 

You  're  Welcome,  Wellib  Stew- 
art          311 

When  first  I  saw  Fair  Jeanie's 

Face 311 

Behold  the  Hour  (first  set)     .  312 
Here  's  a  Health  to  them  that  's 
awa 312 


Ah,  Chloris 313 

Pretty  Peg 313 

Meg  o'  the  Mill  (second  set)  .  313 
Phillis  the  Fair  .  .  .313 
O  SAW  YE  MY  Dear,  my  Philly  .  314 
'Twas  na  her  Bonie  Blue  E'e  314 
Why,  why  tell  thy  Lover     .      314 

The  Primrose 314 

O,  WERT  thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast  315 
Interpolations. 

Your  Friendship  .  .  .  315 
For  thee  is  laughing  Nature  .  315 
No  Cold  Approach  .  .  .  315 
Altho'  he  has  left  me  .  .  315 
Let  Loove  sparkle  .  .  .  316 
As  down  the  Burn  .  .  .316 
Improbables. 

On  Rough  Roads  .  .  .  316 
Elegy  on  Stella  ....  316 
Poem  on  Pastoral  Poetry  .  317 
On   the   Destruction   of  Drum- 

LANRiG  Woods  ....  318 
The  Joyful  Widower  .  .  319 
Why  should  we  idly  waste  oub 

Prime 319 

The  Tree  of  Liberty        .        .      320 

To  a  Kiss 321 

Delia  :  an  Ode    ....      321 

To  the  Owl 321 

The  Vowels  :  a  Talb  .  .  322 
On  the  Illness  of  a  Favourite 

Child 323 

On  the  Death  or  a  Favourite 

Child 323 

GLOSSARY 325 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES        .        .      331 
INDEX  OF  TITLES       .        .        .        .338 


POEMS   CHIEFLY    IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


For  some  time  before  1786,  Burns  had  cher- 
ished a  desire  for  "  guid  black  prent ;  "  and  its 
fulfilment  was  hastened  in  the  end  by  the 
thought  of  his  removal  to  Jamaica.  "  Before 
leaving  my  native  country,"  he  says,  "  I  re- 
solved to  publish  my  poems."  [He  issued  a 
prospectus,  and  after  securing  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  subscribers,  the  book  with  the  above 
title  was  issued  by  John  Wilson,  Kilmarnock, 
appearing  July  31,  1786.  It  was  a  handsome 
octavo,  bound,  except  for  a  few  copies  in 
paper  covers,  in  blue  boards,  with  a  white  back 
and  neat  label.  It  was  issued  by  subscription, 
and  six  hundred  copies  were  printed.  It  con- 
tained the  following  preface.] 

The  following  trifles  are  not  the  production 
of  the  Poet,  who,  with  all  the  advantages  of 
learned  art,  and  perhaps  amid  the  elegancies 
and  idlenesses  of  upper  life,  looks  down  for  a 
rural  theme,  with  an  eye  to  Theocrites  or  Vir- 
gil. To  the  Author  of  this,  these  and  other 
celebrated  names  (their  countrymen)  are,  in 
their  original  languages,  "  a  fountain  shut  up, 
and  a  book  sealed."  Unacquainted  with  the 
necessary  requisites  for  commencing  Poet  by 
rule,  he  sings  the  sentiments  and  manners  he 
felt  and  saw  in  himself  and  his  rustic  compeers 
around  him,  in  his  and  their  native  language. 
Though  a  Rhymer  from  his  earliest  years,  at 
least  from  the  earliest  impulses  of  the  softer 
passions,  it  was  not  till  very  lately  that  the  ap- 
plause, perhaps  the  partiality,  of  Friendship, 
wakened  his  vanity  so  far  as  to  make  him 
think  anything  of  his  was  worth  showing ;  and 
none  of  the  following  works  were  ever  com- 
posed with  a  view  to  the  press.  To  amuse 
himself  with  the  little  creations  of  his  own 
fancy,  amid  the  toil  and  fatigues  of  a  laborious 
life ;  to  transcribe  the  various  feelings,  the 
loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears,  in  his 
own  breast ;  to  find  some  kind  of  counterpoise 
to  the  struggles  of  a  world,  always  an  alien 
scene,  a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind ; 
these  were  his  motives  for  courting  the  Muses, 
and  in  these  he  found  Poetry  to  be  its  own  re- 
ward. 

Now  that  he  appears  in  the  public  character 


of  an  Author,  he  does  it  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling. So  dear  is  fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe, 
that  even  he,  an  obscure,  nameless  Bard, 
shrinks  aghast  at  the  thought  of  being  branded 
as  "  An  impertinent  blockhead,  obtruding  his 
nonsense  on  the  world  ;  and  because  he  can 
make  a  shift  to  jingle  a  few  doggerel  Scotch 
rhymes  together,  looks  upon  himself  as  a  Poet 
of  no  small  consequence  forsooth." 

It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  Poet  ^ 
—  whose  divine  Elegies  do  honor  to  our  lan- 
guage, our  nation,  and  our  species  —  that 
"  Humility  has  depressed  many  a  genius  to  a 
hermit,  but  never  raised  one  to  fame."  K  any 
Critic  catches  at  the  word  genius,  the  Author 
tells  him,  once  for  all,  that  he  certainly  looks 
upon  himself  as  possest  of  some  poetic  abil- 
ities, otherwise  his  publishing  in  the  manner 
he  has  done  would  be  a  manoeuvre  below  the 
worst  character  which,  he  hopes,  his  worst 
enemy  will  ever  give  him  :  but  to  the  genius 
of  a  Ramsay,  or  the  glorious  dawnings  of  the 
poor,  unfortunate  Ferguson,  lie,  with  equal 
imaffected  sincerity,  declares  that,  even  in  his 
highest  pulse  of  vanity,  he  has  not  the  most 
distant  pretensions.  These  two  justly  admired 
Scotch  Poets  he  has  often  had  in  his  eye  in  tbe 
following  pieces  ;  but  rather  with  a  view  to 
kindle  at  their  flame,  than  for  servile  imita- 
tion. 

To  his  Subscribers  the  Author  returns  his 
most  sincere  thanks.  Not  the  mercenary  bow 
over  a  counter,  but  the  heart-throbbing  grati- 
tude of  the  Bard,  conscious  how  much  he  is 
indebted  to  Benevolence  and  Friendship  for 
gratifying  him,  if  he  deserves  it,  in  that  dear- 
est wish  of  every  poetic  bosom  —  to  be  dis- 
tinguished. He  begs  his  readers,  particularly 
the  Learned  and  the  Polite,  who  may  honor 
him  with  a  perusal,  that  they  will  make  every 
allowance  for  Education  and  Circumstances  of 
Life  :  but  if,  after  a  fair,  candid,  and  impartial 
criticism,  he  shall  stand  convicted  of  Dulness 
and  Nonsense,  let  him  be  done  by,  as  he  woidd 
in  that  case  do  by  others  —  let  him  be  con- 
demned without  mercy,  to  contempt  and  ob- 
livion. 

1  Shenstone. 


POEMS   CHIEFLY    IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


THE    TWA    DOGS 


According  to  Gilbert  Burns,  this  Tale  was 
"  composed  after  the  resolution  of  publishing 
was  nearly  taken."  During  the  night  be- 
fore the  death  of  William  Burness,  Robert's 
favorite  dog,  Luath,  was  killed  by  some  per- 
son unknown.  He  thought  at  first  of  certain 
Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  a  Quadruped  Friend 
—  a  true  Eighteenth-Century  inspiration  — 
"  but  this  plan  was  g^ven  up  for  the  Tale  as  it 
now  stands."  "  I  have,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to 
John  Kichmond,  17th  February,  1786,  "  like- 
wise completed  [since  he  saw  Richmond  in 
November]  my  poem  on  the  Dogs,  but  have 
not  shown  it  to  the  world."  It  was  Luath's 
successor  —  inheriting  his  name  or  not  —  whose 
appearance  at  the  "  penny  dance  "  at  Mauch- 
line  led  Bums  to  remark,  in  Jean  Armour's 
hearing,  that  "  he  wished  he  could  get  any  of 
the  lasses  to  like  him  as  well  as  his  dog  did." 

'  T  WAS  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle 
That  bears  the  name  of  auld  King  Coil, 
Upon  a  bonie  day  in  June, 
When  wearing  thro'  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs,  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
Forgathered  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I  '11  name,  they  ca'd  him  Caesar, 
Was  keepit  for  "his  Honor's  "  pleasure: 
His  hair,  his  size,  bis  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Shew'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs; 
But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 
Whare  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar 
Shew'd  him  the  gentleman  an'  scholar; 
But  tho'  he  was  o'  high  degree. 
The  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he; 
But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin, 
Ev'n  wi'  a  tinkler-gipsy's  messin; 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  tho'  e'er  sae  duddie, 
But  he  wad  stan't,  as  glad  to  see  him, 
An'  stroan't  on  stanes  an'  hillocks  wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 
A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 
Wha  for  his  friend  an'  comrade  had  him. 
And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him. 
After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang, 
Was  made  lang  syne  —  Lord  knows  how 
lang. 


He  was  a  gash  an'  faithfu'  tyke, 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face 
Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place; 
His  breast  was  white,  his  tousie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black; 
His  gawsie  tail,  wi'  upward  curl, 
Hung  owre  his  hurdies  wi'  a  swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'  ither, 
And  unco  pack  an'  thick  thegither; 
Wi'  social  nose  whyles  snuff 'd  an'  snowkit; 
Whyles  mice  an'  moudieworts  they  howkit; 
Whyles  scour'd  awa'  in  lang  excursion, 
An'  worry'd  ither  in  diversion; 
Till  tir'd  at  last  wi'  monie  a  farce. 
They  sat  them  down  upon  their  arse, 
An'  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  "lords  o'  the  creation." 


1  've  aften  wonder'd,  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have; 
An'  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw, 
What  way  poor  bodies  liv'd  ava. 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 
His  coals,  his  kain,  an'  a'  his  stents: 
He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel; 
His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell; 
He  ca's  his  coach;  he  ca's  his  horse; 
He  draws  a  bonie  silken  purse, 
As  lang  's  my  tail,  whare,  thro'  the  steeks, 
The  yellow  letter'd  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  it 's  nought  but  toil- 
ing, 
At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling; 
An'  tho'  the  gentry  first  are  stechin. 
Yet  ev'n  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  an  sic  like  trashtrie, 
That 's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie: 
Our  whipper-in,  wee,  blastit  wonner, 
Poor,  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner, 
Better  than  onie  tenant-man 
His  Honor  has  in  a'  the  Ian'; 
An'  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
I  own  it 's  past  my  comprehension. 


Trowth,   Csesar,   whyles   they  're   fash't 
eneugh : 
A  cotter  howkin  in  a  sheugh, 
Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin  a  dyke. 
Baring  a  quarry,  an'  sic  like; 


THE  TWA   DOGS 


Himsel,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 
A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans. 
An'  nought  but  his  han'  darg  to  keep 
Them  right  au'  tight  in  thack  an'  rape. 

An'  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disasters, 
Like  loss  o'  health  or  want  o'  masters, 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 
An'  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and  hunger: 
But  how  it  comes,  I  never  kend  yet, 
They  're  maistly  wonderf  u'  contented ; 
An'  buirdly  chiels,  an'  clever  hizzies. 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 

C/ESAR 

But  then  to  see  how  ye  're  negleckit, 
How  hufE'd,  an'  cuff'd,  an'  disrespeckit ! 
Lord,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  an'  sic  cattle; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk, 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinking  brock. 

I  've  notic'd,  on  our  laird's  court-day, 
(An'  monie  a  time  my  heart 's  been  wae), 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o'  cash, 
How  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash: 
He  11  stamp  an'  threaten,  curse  an'  swear 
He  '11  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear; 
While  they  maun  staun',  wi'  aspect  humble. 
An'  hear  it  a',  an'  fear  an'  tremble  ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches; 
But  surely  poor-folk  maun  be  wretches  ! 

LUATH 

They  're  nae   sae   wretched 's   ane   wad 
think: 
Tho'  constantly  on  poortith's  brink, 
They  're  sae  accustom'd  wi'  the  sight, 
The  view  o't  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  an'  fortune  are  sae  guided. 
They  're  ay  in  less  or  mair  provided; 
An'  tho'  fatigu'd  wi'  close  employment, 
A  blink  o'  rest 's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives, 
Their  grushie  weans  an'  faithfu'  wives; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fire-side. 

An'  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy: 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares. 
To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs ; 


They  '11  talk  o'  patronage  an'  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  i'  their  breasts. 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation  's  comin, 
An'  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon'on. 

As  bleak-fac'd  Hallowmass  returns, 
They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns. 
When  rural  life,  of  ev'ry  station. 
Unite  in  common  recreation; 
Love  blinks.  Wit  slaps,  an'  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there 's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  win's; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream, 
An'  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam  ; 
The  luntin  pipe,  an'  sneeshiu  mill, 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  guid  will; 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse. 
The  young  anes  ranting  thro'  the  house  — 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it 's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play'd; 
There  's  monie  a  creditable  stock 
O'  decent,  honest,  fawsont  folk, 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  an'  branch. 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favor  wi'  some  gentle  master, 
Wha,  aiblins  thrang  a  parliamentin'. 
For  Britain's  guid  his  saul  iudentiu'  — 

CiESAR 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it: 
For  Britain's  guid  !   guid  faith  !     I  doubt 

it. 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  himi 
An'  saying  aye  or  no  's  they  bid  him : 
At  operas  an'  plays  parading, 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading: 
Or  maybe,  in  a  frolic  daft, 
To  Hague  or  Calais  taks  a  waft. 
To  mak  a  tour  an'  tak  a  whirl. 
To  learn  bo7i  ton,  an'  see  the  worl'. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails; 
Or  by  Madrid  he  taks  the  rout. 
To  thrum  guitars  an'  fecht  wi'  nowt; 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles. 
Whore-hunting  amang  groves  o'  myrtles 
Then  bowses  drumlie  German-water, 
To  mak  himsel  look  fair  an'  fatter, 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


An'  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 
Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain's  guid  !   for  her  destruction  ! 
Wi'  dissipation,  feud  an'  faction. 


Hech,man  !  dear  sirs  !  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mouie  a  braw  estate  ! 
Are  we  sae  foughten  an'  harass'd 
For  gear  ta  gang  that  gate  at  last  ? 

O  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 
An'  please  themsels  wi'  countra  sports, 
It  wad  for  ev'rj'^  ane  be  better, 
The  laird,  the  tenant,  an'  the  cotter  ! 
For  thae  frank,  rantin,  ramblin  billies, 
Fient  haet  o'  them  's  ill-hearted  fellows : 
Except  for  breakin  o'  their  timmer, 
Or  speakin  lightly  o'  their  limmer. 
Or  shootin  of  a  hare  or  nioor-cock, 
The  ne'er-a-bit  they  're  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  nie,  master  Caesar: 
Sure   great   folk's   life  's   a   life  o'  pleas- 
ure ? 
Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them. 
The  vera  thought  o't  need  na  fear  them. 

C^SAR 

Lord,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I 
am, 
The  gentles,  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em  ! 

It 's  true,  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 
Thro'  winter's  cauld,  or  simmer's  heat: 
They  've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An'  fill  auld-age  wi'  grips  an'  granes: 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools. 
For  a'  their  colleges  an'  schools. 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them. 
They  mak  enow  themsels  to  vex  them; 
An'  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them, 
In  like  proportion,  less  will  hurt  them. 

A  countra  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 
His  acre  's  till'd,  he  's  right  eneugh; 
A  countra  girl  at  her  wheel. 
Her  dizzen  's  done,  she  's  unco  weel; 
But  gentlemen,  an'  ladies  warst, 
Wi'  ev'n  down  want  o'  wark  are  curst : 
They  loiter,  lounging,  lank  an'  lazy; 
Tho'  deil-haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy : 
Their  days  insipid,  dull  an'  tasteless; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang  an'  restless. 


An'  ev'n  their  sports,  their  balls  an'  races, 
Their  galloping  through  public  places, 
There  's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp  an'  art. 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party-matches, 
Then  sowther  a'  in  deep  debauches; 
Ae  night  they  're  mad  wi'  drink  an'  whor- 

Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters. 
As  great  an'  gracious  a'  as  sisters; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither. 
They  're  a'  run  deils  an'  jads  thegither. 
Whyles,  owre  the  wee  bit  cup  an'  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal-potion  pretty; 
Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuks 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictur'd  beuks; 
Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard. 
An'  cheat  like  onie  unhang'd  blackguard. 

There  's  some  exceptions,  man  an'  woman; 
But  this  is  Gentry's  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight. 
An'  darker  gloamin  brought  the  night; 
The  bum-clock  humm'd  wi'  lazy  drone; 
The  kye  stood  rowtin  i'  the  loan; 
When  up  they  gat,  an'  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoic'd  they  were  na  men,  but  dogs' 
An'  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 
Resolv'd  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


SCOTCH    DRINK 

Gie  him  strong  drink  until  he  wink, 

That  'a  sinking  in  despair  ; 
An'  liquor  guid  to  fire  his  bluid, 

That 's  prest  wi'  grief  an'  care  : 
There  let  him  bowse,  and  deep  carouse, 

Wi'  bumpers  flowing  o'er, 
Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts, 

An'  minds  his  griefs  no  more. 

Solomon's  Peoveebs,  xzxi.  6,  7. 

Composed  some  time  between  the  beginning- 
of  November,  1785,  and  17th  February,  1786 
(letter  of  Bums  to  Richmond).  On  20tli 
March  Burns  sent  a  copy  to  his  friend  Rob- 
ert Muir,  -wine-merchant,  Kilmarnock  :  "  May 
the follow  with  a  blessing  for  your  edifi- 
cation." The  metre,  which  has  come  to  be 
regarded  as  essentially  Scottish  (see  Prefatory 
Note  to  the  Address  to  the  Deil,  p.  12),  is  that 
of  Fergusson's  Cauler  Water,  of  which  Scotch 
Drink  is  a  kind  of  parody. 


SCOTCH   DRINK 


Let  other  poets  raise  a  fracas 

'Bout  vines,  an'  wines,  an'  drucken  Bacchus, 

An'  crabbit  names  an'  stories  wrack  us, 

An'  grate  our  lug: 
I  sing  the  juice  Scotch  bear  can  mak  us, 

In  glass  or  jug. 


0  thou,  my  Muse!  guid  auld  Scotch  drink  ! 
Whether  tliro'  wimplin  worms  thou  jink. 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  owre  the  brink. 

In  glorious  faem, 
Inspire  me,  till  I  lisp  an'  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name  ! 

HI 

Let  husky  wheat  the  haughs  adorn, 
An'  aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn. 
An'  pease  an'  beans,  at  e'en  or  morn, 

Perfume  the  plain: 
Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o'  grain  ! 

IV 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood. 
In  souple  scones,  the  wale  o'  food  ! 
Or  tumbling  in  the  boiling  flood 

Wi'  kail  an'  beef; 
But  when  thou   pours  thy  strong   heart's 
blood, 

There  thou  shines  chief. 


Food  fills  the  wame,  an'  keeps  us  livin; 
Tho'  life  's  a  gift  no  worth  receivin, 
When  heavy-dragg'd  wi'  pine  an'  grievin; 

But  oil'd  by  thee, 
The  wheels  o'  life  gae  down-hill,  scrievin, 

Wi'  rattlin  glee. 

VI 

Thou  clears  the  head  o'  doited  Lear, 
Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  Care ; 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  Labor  sair. 

At 's  weary  toil; 
Thou  ev'n  brightens  dark  JDespair 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 

VII 

Aft,  clad  in  massy  siller  weed, 
Wi'  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head ; 
Yet,  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need, 

The  poor  man's  wine: 


His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread, 
Thou  kitchens  fine. 


Thou  art  the  life  o'  public  haunts: 

But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants  ? 

Ev'n  godly  meetings  o'  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspir'd, 
When,  gaping,  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Are  doubly  flr'd. 


That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 
O  sweetly,  then,  thon  reams  the  horn  in  1 
Or  reekin  on  a  New- Year  mornin 

In  cog  or  bicker. 
An'  just  a  wee  drap  sp'ritual  burn  in, 

An'  gusty  sucker  ! 


When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 
An'  ploughmen  gather  wi'  their  graith, 
O  rare  !  to  see  thee  fizz  an'  freath 

I'  th'  lugget  caup  ! 
Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  death 

At  ev'ry  chaup. 

XI 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  aim  or  steel: 
The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel, 
Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel, 

The  strong  forehammer. 
Till  block  an'  studdie  ring  an'  reel, 

Wi'  dinsome  clamour. 


When  skirlin  weanies  see  the  light. 
Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright. 
How  fumbling  cuifs  their  dearies  slight; 

Wae  worth  the  name  ! 
Nae  howdie  gets  a  social  night. 

Or  plack  frae  them. 

XIII 

When  neebors  anger  at  a  plea. 
An'  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be, 
How  easy  can  the  barley-brie 

Cement  the  quarrel ! 
It 's  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer's  fee. 

To  taste  the  barrel. 


Alake  !  that  e'er  my  Muse  has  reason. 
To  wyte  her  countrymen  wi'  treason  ! 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


But  monie  daily  weet  their  weason 
Wi'  liquors  nice, 

An'  hardly,  in  a  winter  season, 

E'er  spier  her  price. 

XV 

Wae  worth  that  brandy,  burnin  trash  ! 
Fell  source  o'  monie  a  pain  an'  brash  ! 
Twins  monie  a  poor,  doylt,  drucken  hash, 

O'  half  his  days; 
An'  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland's  cash 

To  her  warst  faes. 

XVI 

Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well ! 
Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I  tell. 
Poor,  plackless  devils  like  mysel  ! 

It  sets  you  ill, 
Wi'  bitter,  dearthfu'  wines  to  mell, 

Or  foreign  gill. 


May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench, 
An'  gouts  torment  him,  inch  by  inch, 
Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi'  a  glunch 

O'  sour  disdain. 
Out  owre  a  glass  o'  whisky-punch 

Wi'  honest  men ! 

XVIII 

O  Whisky  !  soul  o'  plays  an'  pranks  ! 
Accept  a  Bardie's  gratefu'  thanks  ! 
When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 

Are  my  poor  verses  ! 
Thou  comes  —  they  rattle  i'  their  ranks 

At  ither's  arses  ! 


Thee,  Ferintosh  !     O  sadly  lost ! 
Scotland  lament  frae  coast  to  coast ! 
Now  colic  grips,  an'  barkin  hoast 

May  kill  us  a'; 
For  loyal  Forbes'  chartered  boast 

Is  taen  awa  ! 


Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o'  th'  Excise, 
Wha  mak  the  whisky  stells  their  prize  ! 
Haud   up    thy    ban',    Deil  !    ance,   twice, 
thrice  ! 

There,  seize  the  blinkers  ! 
An'  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 

For  poor  damn'd  drinkers. 


Fortune  !  if  thou  '11  but  gie  me  still 
Hale  breeks,  a  scone,  an'  whisky  gill. 
An'  rowtli  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a'  the  rest. 
An'  deal  't  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

Directs  thee  best. 


THE   AUTHOR'S    EARNEST    CRY 
AND   PRAYER 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  AND  HONOR- 
ABLE THE  SCOTTISH  REPRESENTATIVES 
IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS 

Dearest  of  distillation  !  last  and  best  — 
—  How  art  thou  lost !  — 

Parody  on  Milton. 


Ye  Irish  lords,  ye  knights  an'  squires, 
Wha  represent  our  brughs  an'  shires, 
An'  doucely  manage  our  affairs 

In  Parliament, 
To  you  a  simple  Bardie's  prayers 

Are  humbly  sent. 


Alas  !  my  roupet  Muse  is  haerse  ! 

Your  Honors'  hearts  wi'  grief  't  wad  pierce, 

To  see  her  sittin  on  her  arse 

Low  i'  the  dust. 
And  scriechin  out  prosaic  verse. 

An'  like  to  brust  ! 

Ill 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 
Scotland  an'  me  's  in  great  affliction. 
E'er  sin'  they  laid  that  curst  restriction 

On  aqua-vitse; 
An'  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction, 

An'  move  their  pity. 


Stand  forth,  an'  tell  yon  Premier  youth 

The  honest,  open,  naked  truth: 

Tell  him  o'  mine  an'  Scotland's  drouth, 

His  servants  humble: 
The  muckle  deevil  blaw  you  south, 

If  ye  dissemble  ! 


Does  onie  great  man  glunch  an'  gloom  ? 
Speak  out,  an'  never  fash  your  thumb  ! 


THE   AUTHOR'S    EARNEST   CRY   AND  PRAYER 


Let  posts  an'  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi'  them  wha  grant  'em : 

If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Far  better  want  'em. 

VI 

In  gath'rin  votes  you  were  na  slack; 
Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack: 
Ne'er  claw  your  lug,  an'  fidge  your  back, 

An'  hum  an  haw; 
But  raise  your  arm,  an'  tell  your  crack 

Before  them  a'. 


Paint  Scotland  greetin  owre  her  thrissle; 
Her  mutchkin  stowp  as  toom  's  a  whissle ; 
An'  damn'd  excisemen  in  a  bustle, 

Seizin  a  stell. 
Triumphant,  crushin  't  like  a  mussel. 

Or  lampit  shell ! 

VIII 

Then,  on  the  tither  hand,  present  her  — 
A  blackguard  smuggler  right  behint  her. 
An'  cheek-for-chow,  a  chuffie  vintner 

Colleaguing  join, 
Pickin  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 

Of  a'  kind  coin. 

IX 

Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o'  Scot, 
But  feels  his  heart's  bluid  rising  hot. 
To  see  his  poor  auld  mither's  pot 

Thus  dung  in  staves, 
An'  plunder'd  o'  her  hindmost  groat, 

By  gallows  knaves  ? 


Alas  !  I  'm  but  a  nameless  wight, 

Trode  i'  the  mire  out  o'  sight  ! 

But  could  I  like  Montgomeries  fight. 

Or  gab  like  Boswell, 
There  's  some  sark-necks  1  wad  draw  tight, 

An'  tie  some  hose  well. 


God  bless  your  Honors  !  can  ye  see  't, 
The  kind,  auld,  cantie  carlin  greet, 
An'  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

An'  gar  them  hear  it, 
An'  tell  them  wi'  a  patriot-heat, 

Ye  winna  bear  it  ? 

XII 

Some  o'  you  nicely  ken  the  laws, 
To  round  the  period  an'  pause, 


An'  with  rhet6ric  clause  on  clause 
To  mak  harangues: 

Then  echo  thro'  Saint  Stephen's  wa's 

Auld  Scotland's  wrangs. 


Dempster,  a  true  blue  Scot  I  'se  warran; 
Thee,  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran; 
An'  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  baron. 

The  Laird  o'  Graham; 
An'  ane,  a  chap  that 's  damn'd  auldfarran, 

Dundas  his  name  : 


Erskine,  a  spunkie  Norland  billie ; 
True  Campbells,  Frederick  and  Hay; 
An'  Livistone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie; 

An'  monie  ithers, 
Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

Might  own  for  brithers. 


Thee,sodger  Hugh,  my  watchman  stented, 

If  Bardies  e'er  are  represented; 

I  ken  if  that  your  sword  were  wanted, 

Ye  'd  lend  your  hand ; 
But  when  there  's  ought  to  say  aneut  it. 

Ye  're  at  a  stand. 


Arouse,  my  boys  !  exert  your  mettle. 
To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle; 
Or  faith  !  I  '11  wad  my  new  pleugh-pettle, 

Ye  '11  see  't  or  lang. 
She  '11  teach  you,  wi'  a  reekin  whittle, 

Anither  sang:. 


This  while  she  's  been  in  crankous  mood. 
Her  lost  Militia  fir'd  her  bluid ; 
(Deil  ua  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Play'd  her  that  pliskie  !) 
An'  now  she 's  like  to  rin  red-wud 

About  her  whisky. 

XVIII 

An'  Lord  !  if  ance  they  pit  her  till 't, 
Her  tartan  petticoat  she  '11  kilt. 
An'  durk  an'  pistol  at  her  belt. 

She  '11  tak  the  streets, 
An'  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt, 

I'  the  first  she  meets  ! 

XIX 

For  God-sake,  sirs  !  then  speak  her  fair, 
An'  straik  her  cannie  wi'  the  hair, 


8 


POEMS   CHIEFLY    IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


An'  to  the  Muckle  House  repair, 
Wi'  iustant  speed, 

An'  strive,  wi'  a'  your  wit  an'  lear, 
To  get  remead. 

XX 

Yon  ill-tongu'd  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 
May  taunt  you  wi'  his  jeers  an'  mocks; 
But  gie  him  't  het,  my  hearty  cocks  ! 

E'en  cowe  the  cadie  ! 
An'  send  him  to  his  dicing  box 

An'  sportin  lady. 

XXI 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  of  auld  Boconnock's, 
I  '11  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bonnocks. 
An'  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nanse  Tin- 
nock's 

Nine  times  a-week, 
If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  an'  winnocks, 

Wad  kindly  seek. 


Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 

I  '11  pledge  my  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 

He  needna  fear  their  foul  reproach 

Nor  erudition. 
Yon  mixtie-maxtie,  queer  hotch-potch. 

The  Coalition. 

XXIII 

Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle  tongue; 
She  's  just  a  devil  wi'  a  rung; 
An'  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak  their  part, 
Tho'  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 

She  '11  no  desert. 

XXIV 

And  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and-Forty, 
May   still    your    mither's    heart    support 

ye; 
Then,  tho'  a  minister  grow  dorty, 

An'  kick  your  place, 
Ye  11  snap  your  fingers,  poor  an'  hearty. 

Before  his  face. 

XXV 

God  bless  your  Honors,  a'  your  days, 
Wi'  sowps  o'  kail  and  brats  o'  claes. 
In  spite  o'  a'  the  thievish  kaes, 

That  haunt  St.  Jamie's  ! 
Your  humble  Bardie  sings  an'  prays, 

While  Rab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT 


XXVI 


Let  half-starv'd  slaves  in  warmer  skies 
See  future  wines,  rich-clust'ring,  rise; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envfes. 

But,  blythe  and  frisky. 
She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys 

Tak  aff  their  whisky. 


What  tho'  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms. 
While  fragrance  blooms  and  Beauty  charms, 
When  wretches  range,  in  famish'd  swarms. 

The  scented  groves; 
Or,  bounded  forth,  dishonor  arms 

In  hungry  droves  ! 

XXVIII 

Their  gun  's  a  burden  on  their  shouther; 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o'  powther; 
Their    bauldest    thought  's    a    hank'ring 
swither 

To  Stan'  or  rin, 
Till  skelp  —  a  shot  —  they  're  afP,  a'  throw'- 
ther, 

To  save  their  skin. 


But  bring  a  Scotsman  frae  his  hill. 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill. 
Say,  such  is  royal  George's  will, 

An'  there  's  the  foe  ! 
He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow. 

XXX 

Nae  cauld,   faint-hearted  doubtings   tease 

him; 
Death    comes,   wi'   fearless    eye    he    sees 

him; 
Wi'  bluidy  han'  a  welcome  gies  him; 

An'  when  he  fa's. 
His  latest  draught  o'  breathin  lea'es  him 
In  faint  huzzas. 

XXXI 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steak 
An'  raise  a  philosophic  reek, 
An'  physically  causes  seek 

In  clime  an'  season; 
But  tell  me  whisky's  name  in  Greek: 

I  'U  tell  the  reason. 


THE   HOLY   FAIR 


XXXII 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  niither  ! 
Tho'  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 
Till  whare  ye  sit  ou  craps  o'  heather 

Ye  tine  your  dam. 
Freedom  and  whisky  gang  thegither, 

Tak  aff  your  dram  ! 


THE    HOLY    FAIR 

A  robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 

Hid  crafty  observation ; 
And  secret  hung,  with  poison'd  crust, 

The  dirk  of  defamation : 
A  mask  that  like  the  gorget  show'd, 

Dye-varying  on  the  pigeon; 
And  for  a  mantle  large  and  broad, 

He  wrapt  him  in  Religion. 

Hypocrisy  a-la-mode. 

"  '  Holy  Fair '  is  a  common  phrase  in  the 
West  of  ycotland  for  a  sacramental  occasion  " 
(R.  B.,  in  Edinburgh  Editions).  The  satire 
is  chiefly  concerned  with  the  "  tent  -  preach- 
ing' "  outside  the  church  while  the  Communion 
services  went  on  within.  In  Maucldine  the 
preaching  tent  was  pitched  in  the  churchyard, 
whence  a  back  entrance  gave  access  to  Nanse 
Tinnock's  tavern  ;  and  the  ''  Sacrament "'  was 
observed  once  a  year,  on  the  second  Sunday  in 
August.  Critics  have  classed  the  piece  among 
the  later  ones  in  the  Kilmarnock  Edition  ;  but 
in  the  MS.  at  Kilmarnock  it  is  dated  "  Autumn, 
1785,"  and  it  probably  records  the  events  of 
that  year.  This  ascription  supports  the  tra- 
dition that  Burns  recited  it  in  the  tavern  where 
the  scene  is  laid,  to  an  audience  which  in- 
cluded Jean  Armour,  with  whom  there  was  no 
quarrel  till  the  spring  of  1786. 

I 

Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 

An'  snuff  the  caller  air. 
The  rising  sun,  owre  Galston  Muirs, 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin; 
The  hares  were  hirplin  down  the  furs. 

The  lav'rocks  they  were  chantin 

Fu'  sweet  that  day. 


As  lightsomely  I  glowr'd  abroad. 
To  see  a  scene  sae  gay, 

Three  hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 
Cam  skelpin  up  the  way. 


Twa  had  manteeles  o'  dolefu'  black, 

But  ane  wi'  lyart  lining; 
The  third,  that  gaed  a  wee  a-back, 

Was  in  the  fashion  shining 

Fu'  gay  that  day. 

HI 

The  twa  appear'd  like  sisters  twin, 

lu  feature,  form,  an'  claes; 
Their  visage  wither'd,  laug  an'  thin, 

An'  sour  as  onie  slaes: 
The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-au'-lowp, 

As  light  as  onie  lambie, 
An'  wi'  a  curchie  low  did  stoop, 

As  soon  as  e'er  she  saw  me, 

Fu'  kind  that  day. 


Wi'  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I,  "  Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me ; 
I  'm  sure  I  've  seen  that  bonie  face. 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye." 
Quo'  she,  an'  laughin  as  she  spak, 

An'  taks  me  by  the  ban's, 
"  Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gi'en  the  feck 

Of  a'  the  Ten  Comman's 

A  screed  some  day. 


"  My  name  is  Fun  —  your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae; 
An'  this  is  Superstition  here. 

An'  that  's  Hypocrisy. 
I  'm  gaun  to  Mauchline  Holy  Fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffiu: 
Gin  ye  '11  go  there,  yon  runkl'd  pair. 

We  will  get  famous  laughin 

At  them  this  day." 


Quoth  I,  "  Wi'  a'  my  heart,  I  '11  do't; 

I  '11  get  my  Sunday's  sark  on. 
An'  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot; 

Faith,  we  'se  hae  fine  remarkin  !  " 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time. 

An'  soon  I  made  me  ready; 
For  roads  were  clad,  frae  side  to  side, 

Wi'  monie  a  wearie  body, 

In  droves  that  day. 


Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin  graith, 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cotters; 
There  swankies  young,  in  braw  braid-claith. 

Are  springin  owre  the  gutters. 


10 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


The  lasses,  skelpin  barefit,  thrang, 

In  silks  au'  scarlets  glitter; 
Wi'  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  monie  a  whang, 

An'  farls,  bak'd  wi'  butter, 

Fu'  crump  that  day. 

VIII 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glowr  black-bonnet  throws. 

An'  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show: 

On  ev'ry  side  they're  gath'rin; 
Some  carryin  dails,  some  chairs  an'  stools, 

An'  some  are  busy  bleth'rin 

Right  loud  that  day. 

IX 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  show'rs. 

An'  screen  our  countra  gentry; 
There  Racer  Jess,  an'  twa-three  whores, 

Are  blinkin  at  the  entry. 
Here  sits  a  raw  o'  tittlin  jads, 

Wi'  heavin  breasts  an'  bare  neck; 
An'  there  a  batch  o'  wabster  lads, 

Blackguardin  frae  Kilmarnock, 
For  fun  this  day. 


Here  some  are  thinkin  on  their  sins, 

An'  some  upo'  their  claes; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl'd  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  an'  prays: 
On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi'  sorew'd-up,  grace-proud  faces; 
On  that  a  set  o'  chaps,  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  that  day. 


O  happy  is  that  man  an'  blest ! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him  ! 
Whase  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best. 

Comes  clinkin  down  beside  him  ! 
Wi'  arm  repos'd  on  the  chair  back. 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him; 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An 's  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkend  that  day. 

XII 
Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er 

Is  silent  expectation; 
For  Moodie  speels  the  holy  door, 

Wi'  tidings  o'  damnation: 


Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 
'Mang  sons  o'  God  present  him; 

The  vera  sight  o'  Moodie's  face 
To 's  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

XIII 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  Faith 

Wi'  rattlin  and  thumpin  ! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath. 

He  's  stampin,  an'  he  's  jumpin  ! 
His  lengthen'd  chin,  his  turn'd-up  snout. 

His  eldritch  squeel  an'  gestures, 
0  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout  — 

Like  cantharidian  plaisters 

On  sic  a  day. 


But  hark  !  the  tent  has  chang'd  its  voice; 

There  's  peace  an'  rest  nae  langer; 
For  a'  the  real  judges  rise, 

They  canna  sit  for  anger: 
Smith  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals; 
An'  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs. 

To  gie  the  jars  an'  barrels 

A  lift  that  day. 

XV 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine, 

Of  moral  pow'rs  an'  reason  ? 
His  English  style,  an'  gesture  fine 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season. 
Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen. 
The  moral  man  he  does  define. 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That 's  right  that  day. 

XVI 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 

Against  sic  poison'd  nostrum; 
For  Peebles,  frae  the  water-fit. 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum: 
See,  up  he  's  got  the  word  o'  God, 

An'  meek  an'  mim  has  view'd  it. 
While  Common-sense  has  taen  the  road, 

An'  aff,  an'  up  the  Cowgate 

Fast,  fast  that  day. 


Wee  Miller  niest,  the  guard  relieves. 

An'  orthodoxy  raibles, 
Tho'  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes, 

An'  thinks  it  auld  wives'  fables: 


THE   HOLY    FAIR 


But  faith  !  the  birkie  wants  a  manse : 

So,  caunilie  he  hums  them; 
Altho'  his  carnal  wit  an'  sense 

Like  hafflins-wise  o'ercomes  him 
At  times  that  day. 

XVIII 

Now  butt  an'  ben  the  change-house  fills, 

Wi'  yill-caup  commentators; 
Here  's  crying  out  for  bakes  an'  gills, 

An'  there  the  pint-stowp  clatters; 
While  thick  an'  thrang,  an'  loud  an'  lang, 

Wi'  logic  an'  wi'  Scripture, 
They  raise  a  din,  that  in  the  end 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

O'  wrath  that  day. 

XIX 

Leeze  me  on  drink  !  it  gies  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college; 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lear, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o'  knowledge: 
Be  't  whisky-gill  or  penny  wheep, 

Or  onie  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinkin  deep, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion, 

By  night  or  day. 


The  lads  an'  lasses,  blythely  bent 

To  mind  baith  saul  an'  body. 
Sit  round  the  table,  weel. content, 

An'  steer  about  the  toddy: 
On  this  ane's  dress,  an'  that  ane's  leuk, 

They  're  makin  observations ; 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk. 

An'  formin  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 


But  now  the  Lord's  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin. 
And  echoes  back  return  the  shouts; 

Black  Russell  is  na  spairin: 
His  piercin  words,  like  Highlan'  swords, 

Divide  the  joints  an'  marrow; 
His  talk  o'  Hell,  whare  devils  dwell, 

Our  verra  "  sauls  does  harrow  " 

Wi'  fright  that  day  ! 

XXII 

A  vast,  unbottom'd,  boundless  pit, 
Fill'd  fou  o'  lowin  brunstane, 

Whase  ragin  flame,  an'  scorchin  heat. 
Wad  melt  the  hardest  whim-stane  ! 


The  half-asleep  start  up  wi'  fear, 
An'  think  they  hear  it  roarin ; 

When  presently  it  does  appear, 
'T  was  but  some  neebor  snorin 

Asleep  that  day. 

XXIII 

'T  wad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell, 

How  monie  stories  past; 
An'  how  they  crouded  to  the  yill. 

When  they  were  a'  dismist; 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  an'  caups, 

Amang  the  furms  an'  benches; 
An'  cheese  an'  bread,  frae  women's  laps, 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches. 

An'  dawds  that  day. 

XXIV 

In  comes  a  gawsie,  gash  guidwife, 

An'  sits  down  by  the  fire. 
Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  an'  her  knife; 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer: 
The  auld  guidmen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother; 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays. 

An'  gies  them 't,  like  a  tether, 

Fu'  lang  that  day. 

XXV 

Waesucks  !  for  him  that  gets  nae  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething  ! 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or  meh-ie  his  braw  claithing  ! 
O  wives,  be  mindfu',  ance  yoursel, 

How  bonie  lads  ye  wanted, 
An'  dinna  for  a  kebbuck-heel 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day ! 

XXVI 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi'  rattlin  tow, 

Begins  to  jow  an'  croon; 
Some  swagger  hame  the  best  they  dow, 

Some  wait  the  afternoon. 
At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a  blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon: 
Wi'  faith  an'  hope,  an'  love  an'  drink, 

They  're  a'  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 


How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 

O'  sinners  and  o'  lasses  ! 
Their  hearts  o*  stane,  gin  night,  are  gand 

As  saft  as  onie  flesh  is: 


12 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN  THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


There  's  some  are  f ou  o'  love  divine ; 

Tbere  's  some  are  fou  o'  brandy; 
An'  monie  jobs  that  day  begin, 

May  end  in  honghmagandie 

Some  ither  day. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE    DEIL 

O  Prince '.    O  Chief  of  many  throned  pow'rs  ! 
That  led  th'  embattl'd  seraphim  to  war. 

Mllton. 

Gilbert  Bums  states  that  his  brother  first 
repeated  the  Address  to  the  Deil  in  the  winter 
"  following  the  summer  of  1784,"  while  they 
"  were  going  together  with  carts  of  coal  to  the 
family  fire  ;  "  but  it  is  clear  from  Burns's  letter 
to  Richmond,  12th  February,  1786,  that  he  mis- 
dates the  poem  by  a  year.  The  Address  is,  in 
part,  a  good-natured  burlesque  of  the  Miltonic 
ideal  of  Satan  ;  and  this  is  effected  "  by  the  in- 
troduction," to  use  the  words  of  Gilbert  Bums, 
"of  ludicrous  accounts  and  representations," 
from  "  various  quarters,"  of  that  "  august  per- 
sonage." Burns  in  his  despairing  moods  was 
accustomed  to  feign  the  strongest  admiration 
for  Milton's  Arch-Fiend  and  his  dauntless  su- 
periority to  his  desperate  circumstances  ;  and 
his  farewell  apostrophe,  although  it  takes  the 
form  of  an  exclamation  of  pity  —  and  was  ac- 
cepted merely  as  such  by  the  too-too  senti- 
mental yet  austere  Carlyle  —  is  in  reality  a 
satiric  thrust  at  the  old  Satanic  dogma. 

The  six-line  stave  in  rime  couee,  built  on  two 
rhymes,  used  in  the  Address  to  the  Deil,  was 
borrowed  from  the  troubadours,  and  freely 
used  in  mediseval  English  during  the  thirteenth, 
fourteenth,  and  fifteenth  centuries.  There  is 
small  doubt  that  it  was  known  to  medieval 
Scotland,  but  the  first  Scotsman  whose  name 
ii  attached  to  it  is  Sir  David  Lindsay  (1540). 
It  fell  into  disuse  with  the  decline  of  popular 
poetry  after  the  Reformation  [but  was  revived 
in  the  Piper  of  Kdbarchan  and  other  ballads, 
rendered  more  familiar  by  Allan  Ramsay,  and] 
it  so  took  the  Scottish  ear  that  by  Fergusson's 
time,  as  may  be  seen  in  Ruddiman's  Weekly 
Magazine  (1768-1784),  it  had  become  the 
common  inheritance  of  all  such  Scotsmen  as 
could  rhyme.  Throtigh  Fergusson,  who  did  his 
sprightliest  work  in  it,  and  John  Mayne  (17.')0- 
1836)  — author  of  The  Siller  Gun  (1777),  who 
wrote  it  by  cantos  —  it  passed  into  the  hands 
of  Bums,  who  put  it  to  all  manner  of  uses 
and  informed  it  with  all  manner  of  senti- 
ments :  in  ambitious  and  serious  poetry  like 
The  Vision ;  in  Addresses  —  to  a  Louse,  a 
Mountain  Daisy,  the  Toothache,  the  Devil,  a 
Haggis,  Scotch  Drink,  to  name  but  these  ;  in 
Elegies  —  upon  Tarn  Samson  and  Poor  Mailie 


and  Captain  Matthew  Henderson ;  in  such 
satires  as  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook  and  Holy 
Willie'' s  Prayer  ;  and  in  a  series  of  Epistles  of 
singular  variety  and  range.  His  thoughts  and 
fancies  fell  naturally  into  the  pace  which  it  im- 
poses :  as  Dryden's  into  the  heroic  couplet,  as 
Spenser's  into  the  stanza  of  The  Faerie  Queen. 
Indeed,  he  cannot  keep  it  out  of  his  head, 
and  his  Alexandrines  often  march  to  the  tune 
of  it :  — 

"  And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced 
By  Heaven's  command  "  — 

"  And  '  Let  us  wor.ship  God,'  he  says 
With  solemn  air  "  — 

"  And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn 
Thy  hapless  fate." 

'Tis  small  wonder,  therefore,  that  a  very 
large  proportion  of  his  non-lyrical  achieve- 
ment is  set  forth  in  it,  or  that  Wordsworth 
should  choose  it  for  the  stave  of  his  memorial 


O  THOU  !  whatever  title  suit  thee  — 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie  — 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an'  sootie, 

Clos'd  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches  ! 


Hear  me,  Auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee. 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 
I  'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

Ev'n  to  a  deil. 
To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me 

An'  hear  us  squeel. 

Ill 

Great  is  thy  pow'r  an'  great  thy  fame ; 
Far  kend  an'  noted  is  thy  name ; 
An'  tho'  yon  lowin  heugh  's  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far; 
An'  faith  !  thou  's  neither  lag,  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate,  nor  scaur. 

IV 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roarin  lion. 
For  prey,  a'  holes  an'  corners  trying; 
Whyles,  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin, 

Tirlin  the  kirks; 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin. 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 


I  've  heard  my  rev'rend  graunie  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray; 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   DEIL 


13 


Or,  where  auld  ruin'd  castles  grey 
Nod  to  the  moon, 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way 
Wi'  eldritch  croon. 


When  twilight  did  my  grannie  summon, 
To  say  her  pray'rs,  douce,  honest  woman  ! 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she  's  heard  you  bum- 
min, 

Wi'  eerie  drone; 
Or,  rustlin,  thro'  the  boortrees  comin, 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 


Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night. 

The  star  shot  down  wi'  sklentin  light, 

Wi'  you  mysel,  I  gat  a  fright: 

Ayont  the  lough, 
Ye,  like  a  rash-buss,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sugh. 


The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 
Each  bristl'd  hair  stood  like  a  stake; 
When   wi'    an    eldritch,    stoor     "quaick, 
quaick," 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa  ye  squatter'd  like  a  drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 

IX 

Let  warlocks  grim,  an'  wither'd  hags, 
Tell  how  wi'  you,  on  ragweed  nags, 
They  skim  the  muirs  an'  dizzy  crags, 

Wi'  wicked  speed; 
And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues, 

Owre  howkit  dead. 


Thence,  couutra  wives,  wi'  toil  an'  pain. 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain; 
For  O  !  the  yellow  treasure  's  taen 

By  witching  skill; 
An'  dawtit,  twal-piut  hawkie  's  gaen 

As  yell 's  the  bill. 

XI 

Thence,  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse 
On  young  guidmen,  fond,  keen  an'  croose ; 
When  the  best  wark-lume  i'  the  house. 

By  cantraip  wit. 
Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse, 

Just  at  the  bit. 


When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
An'  float  the  jingliu  icy  boord, 
Then,  water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord, 

By  your  direction, 
An'  nighted  trav'Uers  are  allur'd 

To  their  destruction. 


And  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an'  drunk  is: 
The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkies 

Delude  his  eyes. 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

XIV 

When  Masons'  mystic  word  an'  grip 
In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell ! 
The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 

Aff  straught  to  hell. 


Lang  syne  in  Eden's  bonie  yard. 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd, 

The  raptur'd  hour. 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flow'ry  swaird, 

In  shady  bow'r: 

XVI 

Then  you,  ye  auld,  snick-drawing  dog ! 

Ye  cam  to  Paradise  incog, 

An'  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue 

(Black  be  your  fa' !), 
An'  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 

'Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

XVII 

D'  ye  mind  that  day  when  in  a  bizz 
Wi'  reekit  duds,  an'  reestit  gizz, 
Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 

'Mang  better  folk; 
An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uzz 

Your  spitefu'  joke  ? 

XVIII 

An'  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall. 
An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  an'  hal'. 
While  scabs  an'  botches  did  him  gall, 
Wi'  bitter  claw; 


14 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


An'  lows'd  his  ill-tongu'd  wicked  scaul  — 
Was  warst  ava  ? 


But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse, 
Your  wily  suares  an'  fechtin  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

XX 

An'  now,  Auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye  're  thinkin, 
A  certain  Bardie's  rantin,  drinkin. 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin. 

To  your  black  Pit; 
But,  faith  !  he  '11  turn  a  corner  jinkin. 

An'  cheat  you  yet. 


But  fare-you-weel,  Auld  Nickie-Ben  ! 
O,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might  —  I  dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake: 
I  'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  ! 


THE  DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS 
OF  POOR  MAILIE, 

THE  author's  only  PET  YOWE  :  AN 
UNCO  MOURNFU'  TALE 

One  of  the  few  pieces  written  before  1784. 
Burns  "  had,  partly  by  way  of  frolic,  bought 
a  ewe  and  two  lambs  from  a  neighbour,  and  slie 
was  tethered  in  a  field  adjoining  the  house  at 
Loehlie.  He  and  I  were  going  out  with  our 
teams,  and  our  two  younger  brothers  to  di'ive 
for  us,  at  mid-day,  when  Hugh  Wilson,  a  cu- 
rious-looking, awkward  boy,  clad  in  plaiding, 
came  to  us  with  much  anxiety  in  his  face,  with 
the  information  that  the  ewe  had  entangled 
herself  in  the  tether,  and  was  lying  in  the 
ditch.  Robert  was  much  tickled  with  Huoc's 
appearance  and  postures  on  the  occasion.  Poor 
Mailie  was  set  to  rights,  and  when  we  returned 
from  the  plough  in  the  evening  he  repeated  to 
me  her  Death  and  Dying  Words  pretty  much 
in  the  way  they  now  stand." — Gilbert 
Burns. 

As  Mailie,  an'  her  lambs  thegither. 
Was  ae  day  nibblin  on  the  tether. 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a  hitch, 
An'  owre  she  warsl'd  in  the  ditch: 


There,  groanin,  dying,  she  did  lie, 
When  Hughoc  he  cam  doytin  by. 

Wi'  glowrin  een,  an'  lifted  ban's 
Poor  Hughoc  like  a  statue  stan's; 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended. 
But,  wae  's  my  heart  !  he  could  na  mend 

it! 
He  gap^d  wide,  but  naething  spak. 
At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak:  — 

"  O  thou,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  case  ! 
My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 
An'  bear  them  to  my  Master  dear. 

"  Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep 
As  niuckle  gear  as  buy  a  sheep  — 
O,  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair, 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair  ! 
But  ca'  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 
An'  let  them  wander  at  their  will: 
So  may  his  flock  increase,  an'  grow 
To  scores  o'  lajnbs,  an'  packs  o'  woo' ! 

"Tell  him,  he  was  a  Master  kin', 
An'  ay  was  guid  to  me  an'  mine; 
An'  now  my  dying  charge  I  gie  him. 
My  helpless  lambs,  I  trust  them  wi'  him. 

"  O,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives, 
Frae  dogs,  an'  tods,  an'  butchers'  knives  1 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel ; 
An'  tent  them  duly,  e'en  an'  morn, 
Wi'  teats  o'  hay  an'  ripps  o'  corn. 

"  An'  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets, 
Of  ither  vile,  wanrestfu'  pets  — 
To  slink  thro'  slaps,  an'  reave  an'  steal, 
At  stacks  o'  pease,  or  stocks  o'  kail  ! 
So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears. 
For  monie  a  year  come  thro'  the  sheers; 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o'  bread, 
An'  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they  're 
dead. 

"  My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  an'  heir, 
O,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care  ! 
An'  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 
To  pit  some  havins  in  his  breast  ! 
An'  warn  him  —  what  I  winna  name  — 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes  at  hame; 
An'  no  to  rin  an'  wear  his  cloots, 
Like  other  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 


EPISTLE   TO   JAMES   SMITH 


IS 


"  An'  niest,  my  yowie,  silly  thing; 
Gude  keep  thee  frae  a  tether  string  ! 
O,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  up, 
Wi'  onie  blastit,  moorland  toop; 
But  ay  keep  mind  to  moop  an'  mell, 
Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel ! 

"  And  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last  breath, 
I  lea'e  my  blessin  wi'  you  baith: 
An'  when  you  think  upo'  your  mither, 
Mind  to  be  kind  to  ane  anither. 

"  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail, 
To  tell  my  master  a'  my  tale; 
An'  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether, 
An'  for  thy  pains  thou  'se  get  my  blether." 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn'd  her  head, 
An'  clos'd  her  een  amang  the  dead  ! 


POOR   MAILIE'S    ELEGY 


Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 
Wi'  saut  tears  tricklin  down  your  nose; 
Our  Bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close. 

Past  a'  remead  ! 
The  last,  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes; 

Poor  Mailie  's  dead  ! 

II 

It  '3  no  the  loss  of  warl's  gear, 
That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear, 
Or  mak  our  Bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed: 
He 's  lost  a  friend  an'  neebor  dear 

In  Mailie  dead. 


Tliro'  a'  the  toun  she  trotted  by  him; 
A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him, 

She  ran  wi'  speed: 
A  friend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam  nigh  him, 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

IV 

I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense. 
An'  could  behave  hersel  wi'  mense : 
I  'U  say 't,  she  never  brak  a  fence. 

Thro'  thievish  greed. 
Our  Bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 

Sin'  Mailie 's  dead. 


Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe, 

Her  livin  image  in  her  yowe 

Comes  bleatin  till  him,  owre  the  knowe, 

For  bits  o'  bread; 
An'  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead. 


She  was  nae  get  o'  moorlan  tips, 

Wi'  tawted  ket,  an'  hairy  hips ; 

For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships, 

Frae  'yont  the  Tweed: 
A  bonier  fleesh  ne'er  cross'd  the  clips 

Than  Mailie's  dead. 


Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanchancie  thing  —  a  rape  ! 
It  maks  guid  fellows  girn  an'  gape, 

Wi'  chokiu  dread; 
An'  Robin's  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape 

For  Mailie  dead. 

VIII 

O  a'  ye  bards  on  bonie  Doon  ! 

An'  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune  t 

Come,  join  the  melaucholious  croon 

O'  Robin's  reed ! 
His  heart  will  never  get  aboon  ! 

His  Mailie  's  dead  ! 


EPISTLE   TO   JAMES    SMITH 

Friendship,  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ! 
Sweet'ner  of  Life,  and  solder  of  Society  ! 
I  owe  thee  much  — 

Blaib. 

The  recipient  of  this  epistle  was  the  son  of 
Robert  Smith,  merchant,  Maiichline.  He  was 
born  1st  March,  1765,  and  was  thus  six  years 
younger  than  the  poet.  He  lost  his  father 
early,  and,  perhaps  by  reason  of  his  stepfather's 
rigid  discipline,  grew  sometliing  regardless  of 
restraint.  He  was,  however,  clever,  affection- 
ate, and  witty  ;  secured  tlie  poet's  especial  es- 
teem by  his  loyalty  during  the  Armour  trou- 
bles ;  was  a  member  of  the  Court  of  Equity 
(or  Bachelors'  Club,  which  met  at  the  White- 
foord  Arms),  and  the  subject  of  a  humorous 
epitaph  (seejoos^p.  195)  which  need  not  be  in- 
terpreted too  literally;  for  some  time  kept  a 
small  draper's  shop  in  Mauchline  ;  in  17S7  be- 
came partner  in  the  Avon  Printworks.  Linlith- 
gowshire ;  and  about  17S8  went  to  Jamaica, 
where  he  died.     Several  letters  to  him  are  in- 


i6 


POEMS    CHIEFLY   IN  THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


eluded  in  Bums's  correspondence.  His  sister's 
"  wit  "  is  celebrated  in  The  Belles  of  Mauchline. 
The  Epistle  was  probably  -written  early  in 
1786,  before  Bums  had  quite  decided  to  at- 
tempt publication. 


Dear  Smith,  the  elee'st,  pawkie  thief, 
That  e'er  attempted  stealth  or  rief  ! 
Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 

Owre  human  hearts; 
For  ne'er  a  bosom  yet  was  prief 

Against  your  arts. 


For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  an'  moon. 
And  ev'ry  star  that  blinks  aboon. 
Ye  've  cost  me  twenty  pair  o'  shoon. 

Just  gaun  to  see  you; 
And  ev'ry  ither  pair  that 's  done, 

Mair  taen  I  'm  wi'  you. 


That  auld,  capricious  carlin,  Nature, 
To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 
She  's  turn'd  you  off,  a  human-creature 

On  her  first  plan; 
And  in  her  freaks,  on  ev'ry  feature 

She 's  wrote  the  Man. 


Just  now  I  've  taen  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  barmie  noddle 's  working  prime, 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime, 

Wi'  hasty  summon: 
Hae  ye  a  leisure-moment's  time 

To  hear  what 's  comin  ? 


Some  rhyme  a  neebor's  name  to  lash ; 
Some  rhyme  (vain  thought  !)  for  needfu' 

cash; 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  countra  clash, 

An'  raise  a  din; 
For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash ; 

I  rhyme  for  fun. 


The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 

An'  damn'd  my  fortune  to  the  groat; 

But,  in  requit. 
Has  blest  me  with  a  random-shot 

O'  countra  wit. 


This  while  my  notion 's  taen  a  sklent, 
To  try  my  fate  in  guid,  black  prent; 
But  still  the  mair  I  'm  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries,  "  Hoolie  ! 
I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent  ! 

Ye  '11  shaw  your  folly : 


"  There  's  ither  poets,  much  your  betters, 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o'  letters, 
Hae  thought  they  had  ensur'd  their  debtors, 

A'  future  ages ; 
Now  moths  deform,  in  shapeless  tatters, 

Their  unknown  pages." 


Then  farewell  hopes  o'  laurel-boughs 
To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 
Henceforth  I  '11  rove  where  busy  ploughs 

Are  whistling  thrang; 
An'  teach  the  lanely  heights  an'  howes 

My  rustic  sang. 


I  '11  wander  on,  wi'  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed. 
Till  Fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread; 

Then,  all  unknown, 
I  '11  lay  me  with  th'  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  gone  ! 


But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 

Just  now  we  're  living  sound  an'  hale; 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail. 

Heave  Care  o'er-side  ! 
And  large,  before  Enjoyment's  gale, 

Let 's  tak  the  tide. 


This  life,  sae  far 's  I  understand, 

Is  a'  enchanted  fairy-land. 

Where  Pleasure  is  the  magic-wand, 

That,  wielded  right, 
Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand. 

Dance  by  fu'  light. 

XIII 

The  magic-wand  then  let  us  wield; 
For,  ance  that  five-an'-forty  's  speel'd. 
See,  crazy,  weary,  joyless  Eild, 

Wi'  wrinkl'd  face. 


EPISTLE  TO   JAMES   SMITH 


17 


Comes  hostin,  hirplin  owre  the  field, 
Wi'  creepin  pace. 

XIV 

When    auee    life's    day   draws    near    the 

gloamin, 
Then  fareweel  vacant,  careless  roamin; 
An'  fareweel  chearfu'  tankards  foamin, 

An'  social  noise: 
An'  fareweel  dear,  deluding  Woman, 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 


O  Life  !  how  pleasant,  in  thy  morning, 
Young  Fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning  ! 
Cold-pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning. 

We  frisk  away, 
Like  school-boys,  at  th'  expected  warning, 

To  joy  an'  play. 


We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier. 
Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near. 

Among  the  leaves; 
And  tho'  the  puny  wound  appear. 

Short  while  it  grieves. 


Some,  lucky,  find  a  flow'ry  spot. 
For  which  they  never  toil'd  nor  swat; 
They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat. 

But  care  or  pain; 
And  haply  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  high  disdain. 

XVIII 

With  steady  aim,  some  Fortune  chase; 
Keen  Hope  does  ev'ry  sinew  brace; 
Thro'  fair,  thro'  foul,  they  urge  the  race. 

And  seize  the  prey: 
Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place. 

They  close  the  day. 

XIX 

And  others,  like  your  humble  servan', 
Poor  wights  !  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin, 
To  right  or  left  eternal  swervin. 

They  zig-zag  on; 
Till,  curst  with  age,  obscure  an'  starvin. 

They  aften  groan. 


Alas  !  what  bitter  toil  an'  straining  — 
But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining  ! 


Is  Fortune's  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E'en  let  her  gang  ! 
Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let 's  sing  our  sang. 


My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door. 

And  kneel,  ye  Pow'rs  !  and  warm  implorej 

"  Tho'  I  should  wander  Terra  o'ev. 

In  all  her  climes. 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more. 

Ay  rowth  o'  rhymes. 


"  Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  countra  lairds, 
Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards; 
Gie  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards 

And  maids  of  honor; 
And  yill  an'  whisky  gie  to  cairds, 

Until  they  sconuer. 

XXIII 

"  A  title,  Dempster  merits  it; 

A  garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt; 

Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledger'd  cit, 

In  cent,  per  cent.; 
But  give  me  real,  sterling  wit. 

And  I  'm  content. 

XXIV 

"  While  ye  are  pleas'd  to  keep  me  hale, 
I  '11  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal. 
Be  't  water-brose  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheerfu'  face. 
As  lang  's  the  Muses  dinna  fail 

To  say  the  grace." 

XXV 

An  anxious  e'e  I  never  throws 
Behint  my  lug,  or  by  my  nose; 
I  jouk  beneath  Misfortune's  blows 

As  weel  's  I  may; 
Sworn  foe  to  sorrow,  care,  and  prose, 

I  rhyme  away. 

XXVI 

O  ye  donee  folk  that  live  by  rule. 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  an'  cool, 
Compar'd  wi'  you  —  O  fool  !  fool  !  fool  I 

How  much  unlike  ! 
Your  hearts  are  just  a  standing  pool. 

Your  lives  a  dyke  ! 


Nae  hair-brained,  sentimental  traces 
In  your  unletter'd,  nameless  faces  I 


i8 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray; 

But  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 
Ye  hum  away. 


Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye  're  wise ; 

Nae  ferly  tho'  ye  do  despise 

The  hairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boys, 

The  rattling  squad: 
I  see  ye  upward  cast  your  eyes  — 

Ye  ken  the  road  ! 

XXIX 

"Whilst  I  —  but  I  shall  baud  me  there, 
Wi'  you  I  '11  scarce  gang  onie  where  — 
Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair, 

But  quat  my  sang, 
Content  wi'  you  to  mak  a  pair, 

Whare'er  I  gang. 


A    DREAM 

Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  Statute  blames  with 

reason ; 
But  surely  Dreams  were  ne'er  indicted  Treason. 

The  oiitspokenness  of  this  address  —  partly 
traceable  to  the  poet's  latent  Jaeobitism  —  was 
distasteful  to  some  of  his  loyal  patrons,  who 
advised  that,  unless  it  were  modified,  it  should 
not  be  retained  in  the  1787  Edition.  But,  as  he 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  (80th  April),  he  was  "  not 
very  amenable  to  counsel  "  in  such  a  matter  ; 
and,  his  sentiments  once  published,  he  scorned 
either  to  withdraw  them  or  to  dilute  his  ex- 
pression. The  author  of  the  Ode  here  ridiculed 
was  Thomas  Warton.  [Bums  introduced  A 
Dream  with  the  following  preface]  :  — 

On  reading  in  the  public  papers,  the  Laure- 
ate's Ode  with  the  other  parade  of  June  4th, 
1786,  the  Author  was  no  sooner  dropt  asleep, 
than  he  imagined  himself  transported  to  the 
Birth-day  Levee  :  and,  in  his  dreaming  fancy, 
made  the  following  Address :  — 


GtriD-MORNiN  to  your  Majesty  ! 

May  Heaven  augment  your  blisses. 
On  ev'ry  new  birth-day  ye  see, 

A  humble  Poet  wishes  ! 
My  Bardship  here,  at  your  Levee, 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is, 
Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Amang  thae  birth-day  dresses 

Sae  fine  this  day. 


I  see  ye  're  complimented  thrang. 

By  monie  a  lord  an'  lady; 
God  Save  the  King  's  a  cuckoo  sang 

That 's  unco  easy  said  ay: 
The  poets,  too,  a  venal  gang, 

Wi'  rhymes  weel-turn'd  an'  ready, 
Wad  gar  you  trow  ye  ne'er  do  wrang, 

But  ay  unerring  steady, 

On  sic  a  day. 

Ill 

For  me  !  before  a  Monarch's  face, 

Ev'n  there  I  winna  flatter; 
For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 

Am  I  your  humble  debtor: 
So,  nae  reflection  on  your  Grace, 

Your  Kingship  to  bespatter; 
There  's  monie  waur  been  o'  the  race, 

And  aiblins  ane  been  better 

Than  you  this  day. 


'T  is  very  true  my  sovereign  King, 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted ; 
But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding. 

And  downa  be  disputed: 
Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing. 

Is  e'en  right  reft  and  clouted. 
And  now  the  third  part  o'  the  string, 

An'  less,  vrill  gang  about  it 

Than  did  ae  day. 


Far  be  't  frae  me  that  I  aspire 

To  blame  your  legislation. 
Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation: 
But  faith  !  I  muckle  doubt,  my  sire, 

Ye  've  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps  wha  in  a  barn  or  byre 

Wad  better  fill'd  their  station. 

Than  courts  yon  day. 


And  now  ye  've  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 

Her  broken  shins  to  plaister; 
Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece. 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester: 
For  me,  thank  God,  my  life  's  a  lease, 

Nae  bargain  wearin  faster. 
Or  faith  !  I  fear,  that  wi'  the  geese, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I'  the  craft  some  day. 


THE   VISION 


19 


I  'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  be  enlarges, 
(An'  Will 's  a  true  guid  fallow's  get, 

A  name  not  envy  spairges), 
That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

An'  lessen  a'  your  charges; 
But,  God  sake  !  let  nae  saving  fit 

Abridge  your  bonie  barges 

An'  boats  this  day. 

VIII 

Adieu,  my  Liege  !  may  Freedom  geek 

Beneath  your  high  protection; 
An'  may  ye  rax  Corruption's  neck. 

And  gie  her  for  dissection  ! 
But  since  I  'm  here  I  '11  no  neglect, 

lu  loyal,  true  affection, 
To  pay  your  Queen,  wi'  due  respect. 

My  fealty  an'  subjection 

This  great  birth-day. 


Hail,  Majesty  most  Excellent ! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye, 
Will  ye  accept  a  compliment, 

A  simple  Bardie  gies  ye  ? 
Thae  bonie  bairntime  Heav'n  has  lent, 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
In  bliss,  till  Fate  some  day  is  sent, 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 


For  you,  young  Potentate  o'  Wales, 

I  tell  your  Highness  fairly, 
Down  Pleasure's  stream,  wi'  swelling  sails, 

I  'm  tauld  ye 're  driving  rarely; 
But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 

An'  curse  your  folly  sairly. 
That  e'er  ye  brak  Diana's  pales, 

Or  rattl'd  dice  wi'  Charlie 

By  night  or  day. 

XI 

Yet  aft  a  ragged  co^vte  's  been  known, 

To  mak  a  noble  aiver; 
So,  ye  may  doueely  fill  a  throne, 

For  a'  their  clish-ma-claver: 
There,  him  at  Agineourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver; 
And  yet,  wi'  funny,  queer  Sir  John, 

He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  monie  a  day. 


For  you,  right  rev 'rend  Osnaburg, 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 
Altho'  a  ribban  at  your  lug 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer: 
As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog, 

That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 
Then  swith  •  an'  get  a  wife  to  hug. 

Or  trowth,  ye  '11  stain  the  mitre 

Some  luckless  day  ! 


Young,  royal  Tarry-breeks,  I  learn. 

Ye  've  lately  come  athwart  her  — 
A  glorious  galley,  stem  an'  stern 

Weel  rigg'd  for  Venus'  barter; 
But  first  hang  out  that  she  '11  discern 

Your  hymeneal  charter; 
Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple-airn, 

An',  large  upon  her  quarter, 

Come  full  that  day. 

XIV 

Ye,  lastly,  bonie  blossoms  a', 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty, 
Heav'n  mak  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw, 

An'  gie  you  lads  a-plenty  ! 
But  sneer  na  British  boys  awa  ! 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  ay. 
An'  German  gentles  are  but  sma': 

They  're  better  just  than  want  ay 
On  onie  day. 


God  bless  you  a'!  consider  now, 

Ye  're  unco  muckle  dautet; 
But  ere  the  course  o'  life  be  through, 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet: 
An'  I  hae  seen  their  coggie  fou, 

That  yet  hae  tarrow't  at  it ; 
But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 

Fu'  clean  that  day. 


THE   VISION 

The  division  into  ''  Duans  "  was  borrowed 
from  Ossian  :  ' '  Duaii,  a  terra  of  Ossian's  for 
the  different  divisions  of  a  digressive  poem. 
See  his  Cath-Loda,  vol.  ii.  of  MTherson's 
Translation."  (R.  B.)  To  Duan  I.,  as  it  ap- 
pears in  the  1786  Edition,  seven  stanzas  were 
added  in  that  of  17S7,  and  one  to  Duan  II. 


POEMS   CHIEFLY    IN    THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


DUAX   FIRST 


The  sun  had  clos'd  the  winter  day, 
The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 
And  hunger'd  maukin  taen  her  way 

To  kail-yards  green, 
While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 

Whare  she  has  been. 


The  thresher's  weary  flingin-tree, 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me ; 
And  when  the  day  had  clos'd  his  e'e, 

Far  i'  the  west, 
Ben  i'  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 


There,  lanely  by  the  ingle-cheek, 
I  sat  and  ey'd  the  spewing  reek, 
That  fill'd,  wi'  h oast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auld  clay  biggin; 
An'  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 

About  the  riggin. 


All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 

I  backward  mus'd  on  wasted  time: 

How  I  bad  spent  my  youthfu'  prime, 

An'  done  naetbing. 
But  stringing  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 


Had  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 
I  might,  by  this,  liae  led  a  market, 
Or  strutted  in  a  bank  and  clarkit 

My  cash-account: 
While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit, 

Is  a'  th'  amount. 


I  started,  mutt'ring  "  Blockhead  !  coof  !  " 
An'  heav'd  on  high  my  waukit  loof. 
To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  roof, 

Or  some  rash  aith, 
That  I  henceforth  would  be  rhyme-proof 

Till  my  last  breath  — 


When  click  !  the  string  the  snick  did  draw; 
And  jee  !  the  door  gaed  to  the  wa'; 


And  by  my  ingle-lowe  I  saw, 

Now  bleezin  bright, 

A  tight,  outlandish  hizzie,  braw. 

Come  full  in  sight. 


Ye  need  na  doubt,  I  held  my  whisht; 
The  infant  aith,  half-form'd,  was  erusht; 
I  glowr'd  as  eerie  's  I  'd  been  dusht, 

In  some  wild  glen; 
When  sweet,  like  modest  Worth,  she  blusht, 

And  steppM  ben. 


Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 
Were  twisted,  gracefu',  round  her  brows; 
I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token ; 
And  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Would  soon  been  broken. 


A  "  hair-brain'd,  sentimental  trace  " 
Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face; 
A  wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  fidl  upon  her; 
Her  eye,  ev'n  turn'd  on  empty  space, 

Beam'd  keen  with  honor. 


Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen, 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen; 
And  such  a  leg  !  my  bonie  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it; 
Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight  an'  clean 

Xane  else  came  near  it. 


Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 
My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew; 
Deep    lights    and    shades,   bold-mingling, 
threw 

A  lustre  grand ; 
And  seem'd,  to  my  astonish'd  view, 
A  well-known  land. 


Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost; 

There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  toss't, 

Here,  tumbling  billows  mark'd  the  coast 

With  surging  foam; 
There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  boast, 

The  lordly  dome. 


THE  VISION 


XIV 

Here,  Doon  pour'd  down  his  far-fetch'd 

floods; 
Tbere,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds: 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro'  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore; 
And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds 

With  seeming  roar. 


Low,  in  a  sandy  valley  spread. 

An  ancient  borough  rear'd  her  head; 

Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  boasts  a  race 
To  ev'ry  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polish'd  grace. 


By  stately  tow'r,  or  palace  fair. 

Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 

Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

I  could  discern; 
Some   seem'd   to    muse,    some   seem'd   to 
dare, 

With  feature  stern. 

XVII 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel. 

To  see  a  race  heroic  wheel. 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dyed  steel 

In  sturdy  blows; 
While,  back-recoiling,  seem'd  to  reel 

Their  suthron  foes. 

XVIII 

His  Country's  Saviour,  mark  him  well  ! 
Bold  Richardton's  heroic  swell; 
The  chief,  on  Sark  who  glorious  fell 

In  high  command; 
And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 

His  native  land. 

XIX 

There,  where  a  sceptr'd  Pictish  shade 
Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  mark'd  a  martial  race,  ponrtray'd 

In  colours  strong: 
Bold,  soldier-featnr'd,  undismay'd. 

They  strode  along. 


Thro'  many  a  wild,  romantic  grove, 
Near  many  a  hermit-fancied  cove 


(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love 
In  musing  mood). 

An  aged  Judge,  I  saw  him  rove. 
Dispensing  good. 

XXI 

With  deep-struck,  reverential  awe, 
The  learned  Sire  and  Son  I  saw: 
To  Nature's  God,  and  Nature's  law, 

They  gave  their  lore; 
This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 

That,  to  adore. 

XXII 

Brydon's  brave  ward  I  well  could  spy, 
Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye; 
Who  call'd  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 
Where  many  a  patriot-name  on  high, 

And  hero  shone. 

DUAN    SECOND 


With  musing-deep,  astonish'd  stare, 
I  view'd  the  heavenly-seeming  Fair; 
A  whisp'ring  throb  did  witness  bear 

Of  kindred  sweet. 
When  with  an  elder  sister's  air 

She  did  me  greet. 


"  All  hail  !  my  own  inspired  Bard  ! 
In  me  thy  native  Muse  regard  ! 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Thus  poorly  low  ! 
I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward, 

As  we  bestow. 


"  Know,  the  great  Genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a  light  aerial  band, 
Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command. 

Harmoniously, 
As  arts  or  arms  they  understand. 

Their  labors  ply. 


"They  Scotia's  race  among  them  share: 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare; 
Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 

Corruption's  heart; 
Some  teach  the  bard  —  a  darling  care  ■ 

The  tuneful  art. 


22 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


"  'Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore, 
They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits,  pour; 
Or,  'mid  the  venal  Senate's  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand. 
To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore. 

And  grace  the  hand. 


"  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 
Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 
They  bind  the  wild  poetic  rage 

In  energy; 
Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Full  on  the  eye. 


"Hence,  FuUarton,  the  brave  and  young; 
Hence,  Dempster's  zeal-inspired  tongue; 
Hence,  sweet,  harmonious  Beattie  sung 

His  Minstrel  lays. 
Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung. 

The  sceptic's  bays. 

VIII 

"  To  lower  orders  are  assign'd 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind. 
The  rustic  bard,  the  laboring  hind. 

The  artisan; 
All  chuse,  as  various  they  're  inclin'd. 

The  various  man. 

IX 

"  When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 
The     threat'ning     storm     some     strongly 

rein. 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain. 

With  tillage-skill; 
And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 

Blythe  o'er  the  hill. 


"  Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  wile; 
Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile; 
Some  soothe  the  laborer's  weary  toil 

For  humble  gains, 
And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 

His  cares  and  pains. 

XI 

"  Some,  bounded  to  a  district-space. 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race. 
To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  bard; 


And  careful  note  each  opening  grace, 
A  guide  and  guard. 

XII 

"  Of  these  am  I  —  Coila  my  name: 

And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim. 

Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame, 

Held  ruling  pow'r: 
I  mark'd  thy  embryo-tuneful  flame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

XIII 

"  With  future  hope  I  oft  would  gaze, 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways: 

Thy  rudely  caroll'd,  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes; 
Fir'd  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 


"  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar; 
Or  when  the  North  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  thro'  the  sky, 
I  saw  grim  Nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 


"  Or  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
Warm  cherish'd  ev'ry  flow'ret's  birth. 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  ev'ry  grove; 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  gen'ral  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

XVI 

"  When  ripen'd  fields  and  azure  skies 
Call'd  forth  the  reapers'  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  ev'ning  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk. 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise. 

In  pensive  walk. 

XVII 

"  When    youthful    Love,    warm  -  blushing, 

strong. 
Keen-shivering,  shot  thy  nerves  along, 
Those  accents  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th'  adored  Name, 
I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 


"  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild-send  thee  Pleasure's  devious  way, 


HALLOWEEN 


23 


Misled  by  Fancy's  rueteor-ray, 

By  passion  driven; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

XIX 

"  I  taught  thy  manners-painting  strains 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  fame  extends; 
And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila's  plains, 

Become  thy  friends. 

XX 

"  Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  show, 
To  paint  with  Thomson's  landscape  glow; 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe 

With  Shenstone's  art; 
Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 

Warm  on  the  heart. 


"  Yet,  all  beneath  th'  unrivall'd  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows  ; 

Tho'  large  the  forest's  monarch  throws 

His  army-shade. 
Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows 

Adown  the  glade. 


"  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine; 
Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine; 
And  trust  me,  not  Potosi's  mine, 

Nor  king's  regard. 
Can  give  a  bliss  o'ermatching  thine, 

A  rustic  Bard. 

XXIII 

"  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one: 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan; 
Preserve  the  dignity  of  Man, 

With  soul  erect; 
And  trust  the  Universal  Plan 

Will  all  protect. 


this ' 


"  And    wear    thou 

said. 
And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head: 
The  polish'd  leaves  and  berries  red 

Did  rustling  play; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 

In  light  away. 


She    solemn 


HALLOWEEN 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  : 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

GOIJ>SMITH. 

A  Halloween  by  John  Mayne,  author  of  the 
Siller  Gun,  appeared  in  Ruddiman's  Weekly 
Magazine  in  November,  1780.  It  is  written  in 
the  six-line  stave  in  rime  couie  of  The  Piper 
of  Kilbarchan  (see  prefatory  note  to  Address  to 
the  Deil)  and  suggested  little  to  Burns  except, 
perhaps,  his  theme.  Burns  prefaces  his  verses 
thus :  "  The  following  poem  will,  by  many 
readers,  be  well  enough  understood  ;  but  for  the 
sake  of  those  who  are  unacquainted  with  the 
manners  and  traditions  of  the  country  where 
the  scene  is  cast,  notes  are  added,  to  give  some 
account  of  the  principal  charms  and  spells  of 
that  night,  so  big  with  prophecy  to  the  peas- 
antry in  the  west  of  Scotland.  The  passion  of 
prying  into  futurity  makes  a  striking  part  of 
the  history  of  human  nature  in  its  rude  state, 
in  all  ages  and  nations ;  and  it  may  be  some 
entertainment  to  a  philosophic  mind,  if  any 
such  should  honor  the  author  with  a  perusal, 
to  see  the  remains  of  it  among  the  more  un- 
enlightened in  our  own." 


Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light 

On  Cassilis  Downans  dance. 
Or  owre  the  laj^s,  in  splendid  blaze, 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance; 
Or  for  Colean  the  rout  is  taen. 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams; 
There,  up  the  Cove,  to  stray  and  rove, 

Amang  the  rocks  and  streams 

To  sport  that  night: 


Amang  the  bonie  winding  banks. 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin,  clear; 
Where  Bruce  ance  ruled  the  martial  ranks, 

An'  shook  his  Carrick  spear; 
Some  merry,  friendly,  country-folks 

Together  did  convene, 
To  burn  their  nits,  an'  pou  their  stocks. 

An'  baud  their  Halloween 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


The  lassies  feat  an'  cleanly  neat, 
Mair  braw  than  when  they  're  fine ; 

Their  faces  blythe  fu'  sweetly  kythe 
Hearts  leal,  an'  warm,  an'  kin'; 


24 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


The  lads  sae  trig,  wi'  wooer-babs 
Weel-knotted  ou  their  garten; 

Some  imco  blate,  an'  some  wi'  gabs 
Gar  lasses'  hearts  gang  startin 

Whyles  fast  at  night. 

IV 

Then,  first  an'  foremost,  thro'  the  kail, 

Their  stocks  maun  a'  be  sought  ance; 
They  steek  their  een,  an'  grape  an'  wale 

For  muckle  anes,  an'  straught  aues. 
Poor  hav'rel  Will  fell  aff  the  drift. 

An'  wandered  thro'  the  bow-kail, 
An'  pow't,  for  want  o'  better  shift, 

A  runt,  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night. 


Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane, 

They  roar  an'  cry  a'  throu'ther; 
The  vera  wee-things,  toddlin,  rin 

Wi'  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther: 
An'  gif  the  custock  's  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi' joctelegs  they  taste  them; 
Syne  coziely,  aboou  the  door, 

Wi'  cannie  care,  they  've  plac'd  them 
To  lie  that  night. 


The  lasses  staw  frae  'mang  them  a', 

To  pou  their  stalks  o'  corn; 
But  Rab  slips  out,  an'  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn: 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  an'  fast; 

Loud  skirl'd  a'  the  lasses; 
But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

Whan  kiutlin  in  the  fause-house 

Wi'  him  that  night. 


The  auld  guid-wife's  weel-hoordet  nits 

Are  round  an'  round  divided, 
An'  monie  lads'  an'  lasses'  fates 

Are  there  that  night  decided: 
Some  kindle  couthie,  side  by  side, 

An'  burn  thegither  trimly ; 
Some  start  awa  wi'  saucy  pride. 

An'  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 

Fu'  high  that  night. 


Jean  slips  in  twa,  wi'  tentie  e'e; 

Wha  't  was,  she  wadna  tell; 
But  this  is  Jock,  an'  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  hersel: 


He  bleez'd  owre  her,  an'  she  owre  him, 
As  they  wad  never  mair  part; 

Till  fnff  !   he  started  up  the  lum, 
And  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 

To  see  't  that  night. 

IX 

Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  bow-kail  runt, 

Was  burnt  wi'  primsie  Mallie; 
An'  Mary,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt, 

To  be  compar'd  to  Willie: 
Mall's  nit  lap  out,  wi'  pridef  u'  fling, 

An'  her  ain  fit,  it  burnt  it; 
While  Willie  lap,  an'  swoor  by  jing, 

'T  was  just  the  way  he  wanted 

To  be  that  night. 


Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min', 

She  pits  hersel  an'  Rob  in; 
In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join. 

Till  white  in  ase  they  're  sobbin: 
Nell's  heart  was  dancin  at  the  view; 

She  whisper'd  Rob  to  leuk  for  't: 
Rob,  stownlins,  prie'd  her  bonie  mou, 

Fu'  cozie  in  the  neuk  for  't, 

Unseen  that  night. 

XI 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell; 
She  lea'es  them  gashing  at  their  cracks, 

An'  slips  out  by  hersel: 
She  thro'  the  yard  the  nearest  taks. 

An'  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then. 
An'  darklins  grapit  for  the  banks, 

And  in  the  blue-clue  throws  then. 

Right  fear't  that  night. 


An'  ay  she  win't,  an'  ay  she  swat  — 

I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin; 
Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  Lord!  but  she  was  quakin! 
But  whether  't  was  the  Deil  himsel, 

Or  whether  't  was  a  bauk-en', 
Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  na  wait  on  talkin 

To  spier  that  night. 


Wee  Jenny  to  her  graunie  says, 
"  Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  graunie  ? 

I  '11  eat  the  apple  at  the  glass, 
I  gat  frae  uncle  Johnie  : " 


HALLOWEEN 


25 


She  fuff't  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  limt, 
In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'riii, 

She  uotic't  na  an  aizle  brunt 
Her  braw,  new,  worset  apron 

Out  thro'  that  night. 

XIV 

"  Ye  little  skelpie-limmer's-face  ! 

I  daur  ye  try  sic  sportiu, 
As  seek  the  Foul  Thief  ouie  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune: 
Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  sight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it; 
For  monie  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright, 

An'  liv'd  an'  died  deleeret, 

On  sic  a  uisrht. 


"  Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor, 

I  mind 't  as  weel  's  yestreen  — 
I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I  'm  sure 

I  was  na  past  f yf teen : 
The  simmer  had  been  cauld  an'  wat. 

An'  stuflE  was  unco  green; 
An'  ay  a  rantin  kirn  we  gat, 

An'  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 

XVI 

"  Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M'Graen, 

A  clever,  sturdy  fallow; 
His  sin  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean. 

That  lived  in  Achmachalla: 
He  gat  hemp-seed,  I  mind  it  weel, 

An'  he  made  unco  light  o't; 
But  monie  a  day  was  by  himsel. 

He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 

That  vera  night." 


Then  up  gat  fechtin  Jamie  Fleck, 

An'  he  swoor  by  his  conscience. 
That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck; 

For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense: 
The  auld  guidman  raught  down  the  pock. 

An'  out  a  handfu'  gied  him; 
Syne  bad  him  slip  frae  'mang  the  folk. 

Sometime  when  nae  ane  see'd  him, 
An'  try  't  that  night. 

XVIII 

He  marches  thro'  amang  the  stacks, 
Tho'  he  was  something  sturtin; 

The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  taks. 
And  baurls  at  his  curpin; 


And  ev'ry  now  and  then,  he  says, 

*'  Hemp-seed  I  saw  thee, 
An'  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass 

Come  after  me,  an'  draw  thee 

As  fast  this  night." 

XIX 

He  whistl'd  up  Lord  Lenox'  March, 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery; 
Altho'  his  hair  began  to  arch. 

He  was  sae  fley'd  an'  eerie; 
Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak, 

An'  then  a  grane  an'  gruutle; 
He  by  his  shouther  gae  a  keek, 

An'  tumbl'd  wi'  a  wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 


He  roar'd  a  horrid  murder-shout, 

In  dreadfu'  desperation  ! 
An'  young  an'  auld  come  rinnin  out. 

An'  hear  the  sad  narration: 
He  swoor  't  was  hilchin  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie  — 
Till  stop  !  she  trotted  thro'  them  a'; 

An'  wha  was  it  but  grumphie 

Asteer  that  night  ? 

XXI 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  gaen, 

To  winn  three  wechts  o'  naething; 
But  for  to  meet  the  Deil  her  lane. 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in: 
She  gies  the  herd  a  pickle  nits. 

An'  twa  red-cheekit  apples. 
To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kipples 

That  vera  niffht. 


She  turns  the  key  wi'  cannie  thraw. 

An'  owre  the  threshold  ventures; 
But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a  ca'. 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters: 
A  ratton  rattl'd  up  the  wa'. 

An'  she  cry'd,  L — d  preserve  her ! 
An'  ran  thro'  midden-hole  an'  a'. 

An'  pray'd  wi'  zeal  and  fervour 

Fu'  fast  that  night. 

XXIII 

They  hoy't  out  Will,  wi'  sair  advice; 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane; 
It  chanc'd  the  stack  he  faddom't  thrice 

Was  timmer-propt  for  thrawin: 


26 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


He  taks  a  swirlie,  auld  moss-oak 
For  some  black  gruesome  carlin; 

An'  loot  a  winze,  an'  drew  a  stroke, 
Till  skin  in  blypes  cam  haurlin 

AfE  's  nieves  that  night. 

XXIV 

A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  cantie  as  a  kittlin; 
But  och  !  that  night,  amang  the  shaws. 

She  gat  a  t'earfu'  settlin  ! 
She  thro'  the  whins,  an'  by  the  cairn. 

An'  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin; 
Whare  three  lairds'  lands  met  at  a  burn. 

To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in 

Was  bent  that  night. 

XXV 

Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays, 

As  thro'  the  glen  it  wimpl't; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  strays, 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't; 
Whyles  glitter'd  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickeriu,  danciu  dazzle; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel 

Unseen  that  night. 


Amang  the  brachens,  on  the  brae, 

Between  her  an'  the  moon, 
The  Deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey. 

Gat  up  an'  gae  a  croon: 
Poor  Leezie 's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool; 

Near  lav'rock-height  she  jumpit. 
But  mist  a  fit,  an'  in  the  pool 

Out-owxe  the  lugs  she  plurapit 

Wi'  a  plunge  that  night. 

XXVII 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane. 

The  luggies  three  are  ranged; 
And  ev'ry  time  great  care  is  taen 

To  see  them  duly  changed: 
Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys 

Sin  Mar's-year  did  desire, 
Because  he  gat  the  toom  dish  thrice. 

He  heav'd  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 


Wi'  merry  sangs,  an'  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  did  na  weary; 
And  unco  tales,  an'  f unnie  jokes  — 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery: 


Till  butter'd  sow'ns,  wi'  fragrant  lunt. 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steeriu; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt. 

They  parted  aff  careerin 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


THE  AULD  FARMER'S  NEW^ 
YEAR  MORNING  SALUTATION 
TO    HIS  AULD   MARE,  MAGGIE 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCUSTOMED  RIPP 
OF  CORN  TO  HANSEL  IN  THE  NEW- 
YEAR 

[Probably  composed  about  the  beg^inning  of 

1786.] 


A  Gun)  New- Year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie  ! 
Hae,  there  's  a  ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie: 
Tho'  thou  's  howe-backit  now,  an'  knaggie, 

I  've  seen  the  day 
Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  onie  staggie, 

Out-owre  the  lay. 


Tho'  now  thou  's  dowie,  stiff,  an'  crazy, 
An'  thy  auld  hide  as  white  's  a  daisie, 
I  've  seen  thee  dappl't,  sleek,  an'  glaizie, 

A  bonie  gray: 
He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize 
thee, 

Ance  in  a  day. 

Ill 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 
A  filly  buirdly,  steeve,  an'  swank; 
An'  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank 

As  e'er  tread  yird; 
An'  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  stank 

Like  onie  bird. 


It 's  now  some  nine-an'-twenty  year 
Sin'  thou  was  my  guid-father's  meere; 
He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  clear. 

An'  fifty  mark; 
Tho'  it  was  sma',  't  was  weel-won  gear. 

An'  thou  was  stark. 


When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin  wi'  your  minnie: 


ill 


THE   AULD    FARMER   TO    HIS   AULD    MARE,    MAGGIE         27 


Tho'  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  an'  funnie, 
Ye  ne'er  was  donsie; 

But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  an'  cannie, 
An'  unco  sonsie. 

VI 

That  day,  ye  pranc'd  wi'  muckle  pride. 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonie  bride : 
An'  sweet  an'  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air  ! 
Kyle-Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide. 

For  sic  a  pair. 

VII 

Tho'  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and  hobble, 
An'  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble, 
That  day,  ye  was  a  jinker  noble, 

For  heels  an'  win' ! 
An'  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  wauble, 

Far,  far  behiu'  ! 


When  thou  an'  I  were  young  and  skiegh. 
An'  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  driegh. 
How    thou    wad    prance,    an'    snore,   an' 
skriegh. 

An'  tak  the  road ! 
Town's-bodies  ran,  an'  stood  abiegh, 

An'  ca't  thee  mad. 

IX 

When  thou  was  corn't,  an'  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a  swallow: 
At  brooses  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow, 

For  pith  an'  speed; 
But  ev'ry  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

Whare'er  thou  gaed. 


The  sma',  droop-rumpl't,  hunter  cattle 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle; 
But   sax   Scotch   miles   thou    try't   their 
mettle. 

An'  gar't  them  whaizle : 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 

O'  saugh  or  hazle. 


Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan', 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn: 

Aft  thee  an'  I,  in  aught  hours'  gaun, 

On  guid  March-weather, 
Hae  turu'd  sax  rood  beside  our  han' 

For  days  thegither. 


Thou  never  braing't,  an'  fetch't,  an'  fliskit; 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit. 
An'  spread  abreed  thy  weel-fill'd  brisket, 

Wi'  pith  an'  pow'r; 
Till  sprittie  knowes  wad  rair't,  an'  riskit, 

An'  slypet  owre. 

XIII 
When  frosts  lay  lang,  an'  snaws  were  deep. 
An'  threaten'd  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee  bit  heap 

Aboou  the  timmer: 
I  ken'd  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,  or  simmer. 


In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit  ; 
The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac't  it; 
Thou  never  lap,  an'  sten't,  an'  breastit. 

Then  stood  to  blaw; 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit, 

Thou  snoov't  awa. 


My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairntime  a'. 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw; 
Forbye  sax  mae  I  've  sell't  awa. 

That  thou  hast  nurst: 
They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  an'  twa, 

The  vera  warst. 

XVI 

Monie  a  sair  darg  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought  ! 
An'  monie  an  anxious  day  I  thought 

We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we  're  brought, 

Wi'  something  yet. 

XVII 
An'  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan'. 
That  now  perhaps  thou  's  less  deservio; 
An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin; 

For  my  last  fow, 
A  heapet  stimpart,  I  '11  reserve  ana 

Laid  by  for  you. 


We  've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither; 
We  '11  toyte  about  wi'  ane  anither; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I  '11  flit  thy  tether 

To  some  hain'd  rig, 
Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue. 


POEMS    CHIEFLY    IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


THE 


COTTER'S  SATURDAY 
NIGHT 


INSCRIBED   TO   R.  AIKEN,  ESQ. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

Gray. 

The  Cotter^s  Saturday  Night  is  included  in 
the  list  of  poems  mentioned  by  Burns  in  his 
letter  to  Richmond,  17th  February,  178G  ;  it 
was  therefore  composed  between  the  beginning 
of  November,  17^5,  and  that  date.  Gilbert 
Bums  relates  that  Robert  first  repeated  it  to 
him  in  the  course  of  a  walk  one  8unday  after- 
noon. He  also  states  that  the  ' '  hint  of  the 
plan,  and  the  title  of  the  poem,"  were  taken 
from  Fergnsson's  Farmer^s  Ingle. 

This  is  true,  but  the  piece  as  a  whole  is  formed 
on  English  models.  It  is  the  most  artificial 
and  the  most  imitative  of  Burns's  works.  Not 
only  is  the  influence  of  Gray's  Elegy  conspicu- 
ous, but  also  there  are  echoes  of  Pope,  Thom- 
son, Goldsmith,  and  even  Milton ;  while  the 
stanza,  which  was  taken,  not  from  Spenser, 
whom  Burns  had  not  then  read,  but  from 
Beattie  and  Shenstone,  is  so  purely  English  as 
to  lie  outside  the  range  of  Burns's  experience 
and  accomplishment.  "  These  English  songs," 
he  wrote  long  afterwards  (1794)  to  Thomson, 
"  gravel  me  to  death.  I  have  not  that  command 
of  the  language  that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue. 
In  fact,  I  think  my  idea.s  are  more  barren  in 
English  than  in  Scottish."  This  is  so  far  true 
as  to  make  one  wish  that  here,  as  elsewhere, 
he  had  chosen  a  Scots  exemplar  :  that  he  had 
taken  (say)  not  merely  the  scheme  but  also 
the  stave  —  a,  b,  a,  6,  c,  d,  c,  d,  d  —  of  The 
Farmer^s  Ingle,  and  sought  after  effects  which 
he  could  accomplish  in  a  medium  of  which 
he  was  absolute  master.  As  it  is.  The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night  is  supposed  to  paint  an  essen- 
tially Scottish  phase  of  life  ;  but  the  Scottish 
element  in  the  diction  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Scottish  cast  of  the  effect  —  is  comparatively 
slight  throughout,  and  in  many  stanzas  is  alto- 
gether wanting.  In  the  '94  Edition  the  vernacu- 
lar was  a  little  coloured  by  a  more  general  sub- 
stitution of  an"  for  and,  wV  for  with,  and  so 
on.  But  it  may  be  that  Tytler,  rather  than 
Bums,  was  responsible  for  this  ;  and  the  earlier 
orthography,  being  in  better  keeping  with  the 
general  English  cast,  has  been  retained. 


My   lov'd,   my    honor'd,   much    respected 
friend  ! 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 


With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end. 
My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and 

praise  : 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless 
ways  ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 
Ah  !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier 
there  I  ween ! 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh; 

The    short'ning    winter-day    is    near    a 

close  ; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their 

repose: 
The    toil-worn    Cotter    frae    his    labor 
goes  — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end. 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his 
hoes. 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 


At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 
Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher 
through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise 

and  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonilie. 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's 
smile. 
The  lisping  infant,  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and 
his  toil. 


Belyve,  the   elder  bairns  come   drapping 
in. 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  ten- 
tie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman 
grown. 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her 
e'e. 
Comes  hame;  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw 
new  gown, 


THE   COTTER'S   SATURDAY   NIGHT 


29 


Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hard- 
ship be. 


With  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers   and   sisters 
meet, 
And   each   for   other's   weelfare    kindly 
spiers: 
The   social   hours,  swift-wing'd,   unnotic'd 
fleet; 
Each  tells   the   uncos   that   he   sees   or 

hears. 
The  parents   partial   eye    their   hopeful 
years; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 
The    mother,    wi'    her   needle   and    her 
sheers. 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel  's  the 

new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 


Their   master's  and   their  mistress's  com- 
mand 
The  younkers  a'  are  warnfed  to  obey; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 
And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or 

play: 
"  And  O!  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 
And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night; 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 
Implore  His  counsel  aud  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 
Lord  aright." 


But  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 
Jenny,   wha   kens   the   meaning   o'    the 
same. 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor, 
To   do   some   errands,  and   convoy   her 

hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care,  enquires 
his  name. 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel-pleas'd  the  mother    hears,  it  's   nae 
wild,  worthless  rake. 

VIII 

With  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 
A  strappin'  youth,  he  takes  the  mother's 
eye; 


Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit  's  no  ill  taen; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 

kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows 
wi'  joy. 
But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  be- 
have ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae 

grave; 
Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn  's  respected 
like  the  lave. 


0  happy   love!    where    love   like   this   is 

found: 
O  heart-felt  raptures!  bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 

1  've  pac^d  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience   bids   me    this  de- 
clare :  — 
"  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleas- 
ure spare. 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis    when   a   youthful,   loving,  modest 
pair, 
In  other's  arms,  breathe  out  the  tender  tale 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents 
the  ev'ning  gale." 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A   wretch  !   a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and 
truth  I 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 
Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 
Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts  !  dissembling, 
smooth  ! 
Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents   fondling   o'er  their 

child  ? 
Then   paints   the   ruin'd   maid,   and   their 
distraction  wild  ? 


But  now  the  supper  crowns   their   simple 
board, 
The  healsome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's 
food; 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 
That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her 

cood; 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental 
mood. 


30 


POExMS   CHIEFLY   IN    THE    SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck, 

fell; 
Aud  att  he 's  prest,  and  aft  he  ca's  it 

guid; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  't  was  a  towniond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i' 

the  bell. 

XII 

The  chearfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
The\',    round   the    ingle,   form   a   circle 
wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 
The  big  ha'-Bible,  anee  his  father's  pride. 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care, 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  !  "  he  says,  with 
solemn  air. 


They  chant  their  artless  notes   in   simple 
guise. 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 
aim; 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbling  measures 
rise. 
Or    plaintive    Martyrs,    worthy   of    the 

name; 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heaven-ward 
flame. 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays: 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are 
tame ; 
The  tickl'd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they,  with  our  Creator's 
praise. 


The   priest-like    father    reads   the   sacred 
page. 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
high; 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 
Or,  how  the  royal  Bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of   Heaven's  avenging 
ire; 
Or   Job's   pathetic    plaint,  and    wailing 
cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 
Or  other  holy  Seers  that  tune  the  sacred 
lyre. 


Perhaps  the  Chi-istian  volume  is  the  theme: 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 

shed; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second 

name, 

Had   not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His 

head; 
How   His   first   followers   and   servants 
sped; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land: 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand. 
And    heard    great    Bab'lon's    doom    pro- 
nounc'd  by  Heaven's  command. 

XVI 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal 
King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband 
prays : 
Hope    "springs    exulting    on    triumphant 
wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future 

days. 
There,  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  Time   moves  round  in   an 
eternal  sphere. 

XVII 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's 
pride. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art; 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart, 
The   Power,  incens'd,   the   pageant  will 
desert. 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
May  hear,  well-pleas'd,  the  language  of  the 

soul. 
And  in  His  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor 
enroll. 

XVIII 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral 
way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 


TO   A   MOUSE 


31 


And  proffer  up  to   Heaven   the   warm 

request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous 
!  nest, 

I     And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
•         Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the 
i  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
But,   chiefly,   in  their   hearts    with   Grace 
Divine  preside. 

XIX 

From  scenes  like  these,  old  Scotia's  gran- 
•"'  deur  springs, 

f         That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of 
kings, 
"  An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of 

God;" 
And  eertes,   in   fair  Virtue's    heavenly 
road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous 
load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  Hell,  in  wickedness  re- 
fin'd! 


O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven 
is  sent  ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be   blest   with   health,   and   peace,  and 
sweet  content  ! 
And  O  !    may  Heaven   their   simple   lives 

prevent 
From  Luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and    coronets  be 
rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And   stand   a   wall   of    fire   around    their 
much-lov'd  Isle. 


O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide. 
That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart. 
Who  dar'd  to,  nobly,  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part: 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art, 
His  friend,  inspirer,   guardian,  and   re- 
ward !) 
O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert; 


But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard 
In  bright   succession   raise,  her   ornament 
and  guard  ! 


TO    A    MOUSE 

ON  TURNING   HER   UP  IN   HER  NEST  WITH 
THE   PLOUGH,    NOVEMBER,    1 785 

Gilbert  Bums  testifies  that  these  verses  were 
suggested  by  the  incident  in  the  heading  of 
the  poem,  and  composed  "  -while  the  author 
was  holding  the  plough." 


Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic  's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murdering  pattle  1 


I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion 

An'  fellow  mortal ! 


I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I  '11  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 

An'  never  miss  't  ! 


Thy  wee-bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  ! 
An'  uaething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  win's  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  an'  keen  ! 


Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste. 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 


32 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN  THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  mouie  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Kow  thou  's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

VII 

But  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  agley. 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain. 

For  promis'd  joy  ! 

VIII 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But  och  !     I  backward  cast  my  e'e. 

On  prospects  drear  ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE,  A  BROTHER 
POET 

JANUARY 

The  Davie  of  this  Epistle  was  David  Sillar, 
third  son  of  Patrick  Sillar,  farmer  at  Spittle- 
side,  near  Tarbolton,  born  in  1760.  He  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Bums  early  in  1781  at 
Lochlie  ;  in  May  of  that  year  was  admitted  a 
member  of  the  Bachelors'  Club  ;  was  for  some 
time  interim  teacher  in  the  parish  school,  Tar- 
bolton, and  afterwards  started  an  "adventure  " 
school  at  Commonside  ;  opened  a  grocer's  shop 
in  Irvine  towards  the  close  of  1783 ;  published 
in  1789  a  volume  of  Poems  in  imitation  of 
Bums,  who  helped  him  to  get  subscribers  ; 
after  an  attempt  to  get  literary  work  in  Edin- 
burgh, returned  to  Irvine,  where  he  took  up 
teaching  again,  and  ultimately  became  town 
councillor  and  magistrate  ;  died  2d  May,  1830. 
Burns,  in  his  Second  Epistle  to  Davie  (see 
p.  128),  with  which  Sillar  prefaced  his  own 
Poems,  thus  chided  him  for  his  neglect  of  the 
Muse :  — 

"  Sic  ban's  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faiket. 
Be  bain't  wha  like." 

But  this  estimate  was  not  justified :  Sillar's 
published  verses  are  mere  commonplace.  A 
letter  giving  his  recollections  of  Burns  was 
published  in  Josiah  Walker's  Edition  (1811), 


and  has  often  been  reprinted.  Sillar,  whose 
skill  as  a  fiddler  may  partly  explain  Burns's 
admiration,  wrote  the  air  to  which  A  Rosebud 
by  my  Early  Walk  was  set  in  Johnson's 
Museum. 

"It  was,  I  think,  in  the  summer  of  1784" 
writes  Gilbert  Burns,  "  when  in  the  intervals 
of  harder  labour  Robert  and  I  were  weeding 
in  the  garden,  that  he  repeated  to  me  the 
principal  part  of  this  Ejnstley 


While  winds  frae  aff  Ben-Lomond  blaw, 
And  bar  the  doors  wi'  drivin'  snaw, 

And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 
I  set  me  down  to  pass  the  time, 
And  spin  a  verse  or  twa  o'  rhyme, 

In  hamely,  westlin  jingle: 
While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 
I  grudge  a  wee  the  great-folk's  gift, 
That  live  sae  bien  an'  snug: 
I  tent  less,  and  want  less 
Their  roomy  fire-side; 
But  hanker,  and  canker, 
To  see  their  cursed  pride. 


It 's  hardly  in  a  body's  pow'r. 

To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour. 

To  see  how  things  are  shar'd; 
How  best  o'  cliiels  are  whyles  in  want, 
While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant, 

And  ken  na  how  to  ware  't; 
But  Davie,  lad,  ne'er  fash  your  head, 

Tho'  we  hae  little  gear; 
We  're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread. 
As  lang  's  we  're  hale  and  fier: 
"  Mair  spier  na,  nor  fear  na," 
Auld  age  ne'er  mind  a  feg; 
The  last  o't,  the  warst  o't, 
Is  only  but  to  beg. 

Ill 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  bams  at  e'en. 

When  banes  are  craz'd,  and  bluid  is  thin, 

Is,  doubtless,  great  distress  ! 
Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest; 
Ev'n  then,  sometimes,  we  'd  snatch  a  taste 

Of  truest  happiness. 
The  honest  heart  that 's  free  frae  a' 

Intended  fraud  or  guile, 
However  Fortune  kick  the  ba', 

Has  ay  some  cause  to  smile; 
And  mind  still,  you  '11  find  still, 
A  comfort  this  nae  sma'; 


EPISTLE   TO    DAVIE,    A   BROTHER   POET 


33 


Nae  mair  then,  we  '11  care  then, 
Nae  farther  can  we  fa'. 

IV 

What  tho',  like  commoners  of  air, 
We  wander  out,  we  know  not  where, 

But  either  house  or  hal'  ? 
Yet  Nature's  charms,  the  hills  and  woods, 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods. 

Are  free  alike  to  all. 
In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 
With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound, 
To  see  the  coming  year: 

On  braes  when  we  please  then, 

We  '11  sit  an'  sowth  a  tune ; 
Syne  rhyme  till 't  we  '11  time  till 't. 
An'  sing  't  when  we  hae  done. 


It 's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank: 

It 's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  Bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest. 
It 's  no  in  makin  muckle,  mair; 
It 's  no  in  books,  it 's  no  in  lear, 

To  make  us  truly  blest: 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

An'  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest  ! 

Nae  treasures  nor  pleasures 

Could  make  us  happy  lang; 
The  heart  ay  's  the  part  ay 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 


Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  and  drive  thro'  wet  and  dry, 

Wi'  never  ceasing  toil; 
Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they, 
Wha  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way. 

As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 
Alas  !  how  oft,  in  haughty  mood, 

God's  creatures  they  oppress  ! 
Or  else,  neglecting  a'  that 's  guid. 
They  riot  in  excess  ! 

Baith  careless  and  fearless 

Of  either  Heaven  or  Hell; 
Esteeming  and  deeming 
It  a'  an  idle  tale  ! 


Then  let  us  chearfu'  acquiesce, 
Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less 
By  pining  at  our  state: 


And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 
I  here  wha  sit  hae  met  wi'  some. 

An 's  thaukf u'  for  them  yet, 
They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel; 
They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth. 
The  real  guid  and  ill: 
Tho'  losses  and  crosses 

Be  lessons  right  severe. 
There  's  wit  there,  ye  '11  get  there, 
Ye  '11  find  nae  other  where. 


But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o'  hearts  ! 

(To  say  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  cartes> 

And  flatt'ry  I  detest) 
This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I; 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy. 

And  joys  the  very  best. 
There  's  a'  the  pleasures  o'  the  heart. 

The  lover  an'  the  frien': 
Ye  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 
And  I  my  darling  Jean  ! 
It  warms  me,  it  charms  me 

To  mention  but  her  name: 
It  heats  me,  it  beets  me, 
And  sets  me  a'  on  flame  ! 


O  all  ye  Pow'rs  who  rule  above  ! 
O  Thou  whose  very  self  art  love  ! 

Thou  know'st  my  words  sincere  ! 
The  life-blood  streaming  thro'  my  heartj 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  ! 
When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 
Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 
Thou  Being  All-seeing, 

O,  hear  my  fervent  pray'r ! 
Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  ! 


All  hail !  ye  tender  feelings  dear  ! 
The  smile  of  love,  the  friendlj'  tear, 

The  sympathetic  glow  ! 
Long  since,  this  world's  thorny  ways 
Had  number'd  out  my  weary  days. 

Had  it  not  been  for  you  ! 
Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a  friend 

In  every  care  and  ill; 
And  oft  a  more  endearing  band, 

A  tie  more  tender  still. 


34 


POEMS   CHIEFLY    IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene, 

To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean  ! 


O,  how  that  Name  inspires  my  style ! 
The  words  come  skelpin'  rank  an'  file, 

Amaist  before  I  ken  ! 
The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine. 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 

Were  glowrin  owre  my  pen. 
My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp, 

Till  ance  he  's  fairly  het ; 
And  then  he  '11  hilch,  an'  stilt,  an'  jimp, 
And  rin  an  unco  fit; 

But  least  then,  the  beast  then 
Should  rue  this  hasty  ride, 
I'll  light  now,  and  dight  now 
His  sweaty,  wizen'd  hide. 


THE    LAMENT 

OCCASIONED     BY     THE     UNFORTUNATE 
ISSUE   OF   A    friend's   AMOUR 

Alas  !  how  oft  does  Goodness  wound  itself, 
And  sweet  Affection  prove  the  spring  of  Woe  ! 

HOIrlE. 

"  The  unfortunate  issue,"  not  of  a  "  friend's," 
but  of  his  own  "  amour,"  —  when  Jean  Ar- 
mour, overborne  by  paternal  authority,  agreed 
to  discard  him,  —  was,  Burns  declares,  the 
"  unfortunate  story  alluded  to  "  in  the  Lament : 
a  "shocking'  affair"  he  calls  it,  which  had 
nearly  given  him  "  one  or  two  of  the  principal 
qualifications  among  those  who  have  lost  the 
chart  and  mistaken  the  reckoning  of  ration- 
ality." According  to  Gilbert,  the  poem  was 
composed  "  after  the  first  distraction  of  his 
feelings  had  a  little  subsided." 


O  THOU  pale  Orb  that  silent  shines 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep  ! 
Thou  seest  a  wretch  who  inly  pines, 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep  ! 

With  Woe  I  nightly  vigils  keep. 
Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam; 

And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep. 
How  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream  ! 


I  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 
The  faintly-marked,  distant  hill; 


I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn 
Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill: 
My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still ! 

Thou  busy  pow'r.  Remembrance,  cease  ! 
Ah  !  must  the  agonizing  thrill 

For  ever  bar  returning  Peace  ? 


No  idly-feign'd,  poetic  pains 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim: 
No  shepherd's  pipe  —  Arcadian  strains; 

No  fabled  tortures  quaint  and  tame. 

The  plighted  faith,  the  mutual  flame, 
The  oft-attested  Pow'rs  above. 

The  promis'd  father's  tender  name. 
These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love  ! 


Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptur'd  moments  flown  ! 
How  have  I  wished  for  Fortune's  charms, 

For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone  ! 

And,  must  I  think  it  !  is  she  gone. 
My  secret  heart's  exulting  boast  ? 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  ? 
And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 


O  !  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart. 

So  lost  to  honor,  lost  to  truth. 
As  from  the  fondest  lover  part, 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ? 

Alas  !  Life's  path  may  be  unsmooth  ! 
Her  way  may  lie  thro'  rough  distress  ! 

Then,    who   her   pangs    and   pains   will 
soothe, 
Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them  less  ? 


Ye  wingfed  Hours  that  o'er  us  pass'd, 
Enraptur'd  more  the  more  enjoy'd, 

Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast 
My  fondly  treasur'd  thoughts  employ'd: 
That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room  ! 
Ev'n  ev'ry  ray  of  Hope  destroy'd, 

And  not  a  wish  to  gild  the  gloom  ] 


The   morn,   that   warns   th'    approaching 
day, 
Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe; 

I  see  the  hours  in  long  array. 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering  slow: 
Full  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  throe, 


DESPONDENCY 


35 


Keen  Recollection's  direful  train, 

Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Pbcebus,  low, 
Shall  kiss  the  distant  western  main. 

VIII 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try, 
Sore-harass'd  out  with  care  and  grief, 

My  toil-beat  nerves  and  tear-worn  eye 
Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief: 
Or,  if  I  slumber.  Fancy,  chief. 

Reigns,  haggard-wild,  in  sore  affright: 
Ev'n  day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief 

From  such  a  horror-breathing  night. 


O   thou   bright  Queen,   who,   o'er  th'  ex- 
panse 

Now    highest    reign'st,   with   boundless 
sway  ! 
Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 

Observ'd  us,  fondly-wand'ring,  stray  ! 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away. 
While  Love's  luxurious  pxdse  beat  high, 

Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 
To  mark  the  mutual-kindling  eye. 


O  scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set ! 

Scenes,  never,  never  to  return  ! 
Scenes  if  in  stupor  I  forget. 

Again  I  feel,  again  I  burn  ! 

From  ev'ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn. 
Life's  weary  vale  I  wander  thro'; 

And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I  '11  mourn 
A  faithless  woman's  broken  vow  ! 


DESPONDENCY 

AN   ODE 

Composed,  no  doubt,  a  little  after  The  La- 
ment. 


Oppress'd  with  grief,  oppress'd  with  care, 
A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear, 

I  set  me  down  and  sigh; 
O  Life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 
Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road. 

To  wretches  such  as  I  ! 
Dim-backward,  as  I  cast  my  view, 

What  sick'ning  scenes  appear  ! 


What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  thro', 
Too  justly  I  may  fear  ! 
Still  caring,  despairing. 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom; 
My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er 
But  with  the  closing  tomb  ! 


Happy  ye  sons  of  busy  life. 
Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 

No  other  view  regard  ! 
Ev'n  when  the  wished  end  's  denied, 
Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  plied. 

They  bring  their  own  reward: 
W  hilst  I,  a  hope-abandoned  wight, 

Unfitted  with  an  aim, 
Meet  ev'ry  sad  returning  night 
And  joyless  morn  the  same. 
You,  bustling  and  justling. 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain; 
I,  listless  yet  restless, 
Find  ev'ry  prospect  vain. 

Ill 

How  blest  the  Solitary's  lot. 
Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell  — 
The  cavern,  wild  with  tangling  roots  — 
Sits  o'er  his  newly-gather'd  fruits. 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 
Or  haply  to  his  ev'ning  thought, 

By  unfrequented  stream, 
The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 
A  faint-collected  dream; 
While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  Heav'n  on  high, 
As  wand'ring,  meand'ring. 
He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

IV 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  plac'd 
Where  never  human  footstep  trac'd, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part; 
The  lucky  moment  to  improve, 
And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move. 

With  self-respecting  art: 
But  ah  !  those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joys, 

Which  I  too  keenly  taste. 
The  Solitary  can  despise  — 
Can  want  and  yet  be  blest  ! 
He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not 

Or  human  love  or  hate; 
Whilst  I  here  must  cry  here 
At  perfidy  ingrate  ! 


36 


POEMS    CHIEFLY    IN   THE    SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


O  euviable  early  days, 

When  dauciiig  thoughtless  pleasure's  maze, 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 
How  ill  exchang'd  for  riper  times, 
To  feel  the  follies  or  the  crimes 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush. 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court. 
When  manhood  is  your  wish  ! 
The  losses,  the  crosses 

That  active  man  engage; 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  all 
Of  dim  declining  Age  ! 


MAN   WAS    MADE   TO    MOURN 

A   DIRGE 

In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  10th  August, 
1788,  Burns  tells  of  an  old  grand-uncle  who 
had  gone  blind  :  —  '"  His  most  voluptuous  en- 
joyment was  to  sit  down  and  cry,  while  my 
mother  would  sing  the  simple  old  song  of  The 
Life  and  Age  of  Man.  The  old  song  began 
thus : — 

"  'T  was  in  the  sixteenth  hunder  year 

Of  God  and  fif  ty-tliree 
Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  us  dear, 

As  writings  testifie ; 
On  January  the  sixteenth  day, 

As  I  did  lie  alone, 
With  many  a  sob  and  sigh  did  say. 

Ah  !  man  was  made  to  moan  !  " 


When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare. 
One  ev'ning,  as  I  wand'red  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care, 
His  face  was  f urrow'd  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 


"  Young  stranger,  whither  wand'rest  thou  ? ' 

Began  the  rev'rend  Sage; 
"  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain. 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  Man. 


"  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide. 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride: 
I  've  seen  you  weary  winter-sun 

Twice  forty  times  return; 
And  ev'ry  time  has  added  proofs. 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

IV 

"  O  Man  !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Mis-spending  all  thy  precious  hours. 

Thy  glorious,  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway. 

Licentious  passions  burn: 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature's  law, 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 


"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right: 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn; 
Then   Age   and    Want  —  O   ill-match'd 
pair  !  — 

Shew  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 


"  A  few  seem  favourites  of  Fate, 

In  Pleasure's  lap  carest; 
Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest: 
But  oh  !  what  crowds  in  ev'ry  land. 

All  wretched  and  forlorn. 
Thro'  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

vn 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  num'rous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  Man,  whose  heav'n-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn,  — 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 


'  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wight. 
So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 


A  PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH 


37 


Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil; 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn, 

Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 
And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 


"  If  I  'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave 

By  Nature's  law  design 'd  — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty,  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  Man  the  will  and  pow'r 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 


"  Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast: 
This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last  ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Had  never,  siire,  been  born. 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

XI 

"  O  Death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend. 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  ag^d  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest  ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy  fear  thy  blow 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn; 
But,  oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn  ! " 


WINTER 

A   DIRGE 

Burns  writes  in  the  First  Common  Place  Book 
under  date  April,  1784  :  "  There  is  scarcely  any 
earthly  object  gives  me  more  —  I  don't  know 
if  I  should  call  it  pleasure,  but  something 
which  exalts  me,  something  which  enraptures 
me  —  than  to  walk  in  the  sheltered  side  of  a 
wood  or  high  plantation,  in  a  cloudy  winter  day, 
and  hear  a  stormy  wind  howling  among  the 
trees  and  raving  o'er  the  plain.  It  is  my  best 
season  for  devotion  ;  my  mind  is  rapt  up  in  a 
kind  of  enthusiasm  to  Him  who,  in  the  pompous 
language  of  Scripture,  '  Walks  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind.'  In  one  of  these  seasons,  just  after 
a  tract  of  misfortunes,  I  composed  the  follow- 


ing song  "  —  Winter,  to  wit.  Gilbert  afiBrms 
it  to  be  a  "  juvenile  production  ;  "  and  the  poet 
himself,  in  his  Autobiographic  Letter  to  Dr. 
Moore,  refers  to  it  as  "  the  eldest  of  ray  printed 
pieces,"  and  includes  it  among  others  composed 
in  the  interval  between  his  return  from  Kirkos- 
wald  and  his  residence  in  Irvine.  It  is  there- 
fore impossible  to  assign  it  to  a  period  so  late  as 
that  conjectured  by  Chambers  and  Scott  Doug- 
las ;  and  the  "  tract  of  misfortunes  "  cannot 
describe,  as  the  latter  held,  the  disasters  at 
Irvine,  but  was  probably  one  of  family  losses. 


The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw; 
Or  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 

The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw: 
Wild-tumbling    brown,    the    burn    comes 
down. 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae: 
While  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest. 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 


"  The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'ercast," 

The  joyless  winter  day 
Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May: 
The  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join; 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine  ! 


Thou  Pow'r  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Here,  firm  I  rest,  they  must  be  best. 

Because  they  are  Thy  will  ! 
Then  all  I  want  (O,  do  Thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine  !): 
Since  to  enjoy  Thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resis:n. 


A  PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT 
OF  DEATH 

First  Common  Place  Booh,  under  date  August, 
1784  :  "  A  Prayer  when  fainting  fits,  and  other 
alarming  symptoms  of  a  pleurisy  or  some  other 
dangerous  disorder,  which  indeed  still  threaten 
me,  first  put  nature  on  the  alarm."  A  manu- 
script in  the  Burns  Monument,  Edinburgh,  has 
the  heading :  "  A  Prayer  when  dangerously 
threatened  with  pleuritic  attacks."  The  piece 
has  been  assigned  to  1784,  but  the  entry  in  the 


38 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


Common  Place  Boole  proves  it  earlier  than  the 
August  of  that  year.  It  was  probably  written 
during  Bums's  residence  in  Irvine,  when,  as 
would  appear  from  a  letter  to  liis  father,  27th 
December,  1781,  he  had  the  prospect  of  "  per- 
haps very  soon"  bidding  ''adieu  to  all  the 
pains,  and  uneasiness,  and  disquietudes  of  this 
weary  life." 

O  Thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  ! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 

Perhaps  I  must  appear ! 

If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun  — 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Remonstrates  I  have  done  — 

Thou  know'st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong; 

And  list'ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short. 

Or  frailty  stept  aside, 
Do  Thou,  All-good  —  for  such  Thou  art  — 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

Where  with  intention  I  have  err'd, 

No  other  plea  I  have. 
But,  Thou  art  good ;  and  Goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 

TO   A   MOUNTAIN    DAISY 

ON   TURNING   ONE    DOWN   WITH    THE 
PLOUGH  IN  APRIL,  1 786 

Enclosed,  under  the  title  of  The  Gowan,  in 
a,  letter  of  20th  April,  1786,  to  John  Kennedy, 
clerk  to  the  Earl  of  Dumfries,  at  Dumfries 
House,  near  Mauchline  :  "  I  have  here  like- 
wise enclosed  a  small  piece,  the  very  latest  of 
my  productions.  I  am  a  good  deal  pleased 
with  some  sentiments  myself,  as  they  are  just 
the  native  querulous  feelings  of  a  heart  which, 
as  the  elegantly  melting  Gray  says,  '  melan- 
choly has  marked  for  her  own.'  "  The  last 
four  stanzas  convejing  the  moral  are  in  undi- 
luted English. 

I 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippfed  flow'r, 
Thou  's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem: 


To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 
Thou  bonie  gem. 


Alas  !  it 's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast ! 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  g^eet 

The  purpling  east. 


Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field. 

Unseen,  alane. 


There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 


Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid. 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 


Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  Life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er  ! 


Such  fate  to  suffering  Worth  is  giv'n. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 


EPISTLE   TO   A   YOUNG    FRIEND 


39 


By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 
To  mis'ry's  brink; 

Till,  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 
He,  ruin'd,  sink  ! 

IX 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ; 
Stern  Ruin's  plough-share  drives  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 


TO  RUIN 
From  the  lines 

"  For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie, 
And  quivers  in  my  heart  "  — 

it  would  appear  that  this  piece  dates  from  the 
close  of  Burns's  residence  at  Irvine  in  1782, 
when,  to  crown  his  misfortunes,  he  was,  as  he 
relates  in  his  Autobiographical  Letter,  jilted 
"  with  peculiar  circumstances  of  mortification  " 
by  one  "  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  marry 
him."  True,  he  was  greatly  distracted  by  Ar- 
mour's conduct  in  repudiating  him  ;  but  there 
is  no  evidence  that  he  was  revisited  by  the 
hypochondriacal  longing  for  death  to  which 
expression  is  given  in  his  second  stanza. 


All  hail,  inexorable  lord  ! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word, 

The  mightiest  empires  fall  ! 
Thy  cruel,  woe-delighted  train. 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all! 
With  stern-resolv'd,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aim^d  dart ; 
For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie. 
And  quivers  in  my  heart. 
Then  low'ring  and  pouring. 

The  storm  no  more  I  dread; 
Tho'  thick 'ning  and  black'ning 
Round  my  devoted  head. 


And  thou  grim  Pow'r,  by  Life  abhorr'd. 
While  Life  a  pleasure  can  afford, 

O  !  hear  a  wretch's  pray'r  ! 
No  more  I  shrink  appall'd,  afraid; 
I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid, 

To  close  this  scene  of  care  I 


When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace. 

Resign  Life's  joyless  day  ? 
My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease, 
Cold-mould'ring  in  the  clay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more 
To  stain  my  lifeless  face, 
Enclasped  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND 


May  ■ 


1786. 


The  "  young  friend  "  of  this  Epistle  was  An- 
drew Hunter  Aiken,  son  of  Robert  Aiken  of 
Ayr.  After  a  successful  commercial  career  in 
Liverpool,  he  became  English  consul  at  Riga, 
where  he  died  in  1831.  His  son,  Peter  Free- 
land  Aiken,  —  bom  1790,  died  3d  March,  1877, 
—  published  in  1876  Memoirs  of  Robert  Burns 
and  some  of  his  Contemporaries. 

William  Niven  of  Kirkoswald  —  afterwards 
of  Maybole,  and  finally  of  Kilbride  —  was 
accustomed  to  complain  —  not,  however,  to 
Burns,  in  so  far  as  is  known,  nor  till  after  his 
death  —  that  this  Epistle  was  originally  ad- 
dressed to  him.  His  claim  was  supported  by 
the  Rev.  Hamilton  Paul  (Poems  and  Songs  of 
Burns,  1819)  ;  but,  as  Niven  had  no  copy  to 
show,  it  would  seem  that,  if  a  rhyming  Epistle 
were  sent  him,  he  set  little  store  by  the  honour. 


I  LANG  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Tho'  it  should  serve  nae  ither  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento: 
But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang, 

Let  time  and  chance  determine: 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang; 

Perhaps,  turn  out  a  sermon. 


Ye  '11  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad; 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me. 
Ye  '11  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye: 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

Ev'n  when  your  end  's  attained : 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 

Where  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained. 

Ill 

I  '11  no  say,  men  are  villains  a' : 
The  real,  harden'd  wicked, 


40 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


Wha  hae  nae  check  but  huniau  law, 

Are  to  a  few  restricked; 
But,  och  !  maukind  are  uuco  weak 

An'  little  to  be  trusted; 
If  Self  the  waveriug  balance  shake. 

It 's  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 


Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  Fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  na  censure; 
For  still,  th'  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer: 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Tho'  poortith  hourly  stare  him ; 
A  man  may  tak  a  neebor's  part. 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 


Ay  free,  aff  ban',  your  story  tell, 

When  wi'  a  bosom  cronie ; 
But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  onie: 
Conceal  yoursel  as  weel  's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection: 
But  keek  thro'  ev'ry  other  man 

Wi'  sharpen'd,  sly  inspection. 


The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-plac'd  love, 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it: 
I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin. 

The  hazard  of  concealing; 
But,  och  !  it  hardens  a'  within. 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 


To  catch  Dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her; 
And  gather  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That  's  justify'd  by  honour: 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train-attendant; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 


The  fear  o'  Hell 's  a  hangman's  whip 
To  baud  the  wretch  in  order; 

But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip. 
Let  that  ay  be  your  border: 

Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause  — 
Debar  a'  side-pretences; 


And  resolutely  keep  its  laws. 
Uncaring  consequences. 


The  great  Creator  to  revere 

Must  sure  become  the  creature; 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  ev'n  the  rigid  feature: 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range 

Be  complaisance  extended; 
An  atheist-laugh 's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  offended ! 


When  ranting  round  in  Pleasure's  ring. 

Religion  may  be  blinded; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded; 
But  w  hen  on  Life  we  're  tempest-driv'n 

A  conscience  but  a  canker  — 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heav'n 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor  ! 


Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth  ! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting  ! 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth. 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 
In   ploughman    phrase,    "God   send   you 
speed," 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser; 
And  may  ye  better  reck  the  rede, 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser  ! 


ON   A   SCOTCH    BARD 

GONE   TO   THE   WEST   INDIES 

Probably  among  the  latest  written  for  the 
Kilmarnock  Edition.  Wliile  it  was  in  progress, 
Burns  was  maturing  his  plans  for  emigration, 
and  on  17th  July,  1786,  he  wrote  to  David 
Brice,  Glasgow :  "  I  am  now  fixed  to  go  for  the 
West  Indies  in  October." 


A'  YE  wha  live  by  sowps  o'  drink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  and  never  think, 

Come,  mourn  wi'  me  ! 
Our  billie  's  gien  us  a'  a  jink, 

An'  owre  the  sea  ! 


A   DEDICATION 


41 


Lament  him  a'  ye  rantin  core, 
Wba  dearly  like  a  random-splore ; 
Nae  mair  he  '11  join  the  merry  roar 

In  social  key; 
For  now  he  's  taen  anither  shore, 

An'  owre  the  sea! 

Ill 

The  bonie  lasses  weel  may  wiss  him, 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him: 
The  widows,  wives,  an'  a'  may  bless  hini 

Wi'  tearfu'  e'e, 
For  weel  I  wat  they  '11  sairly  miss  him 

That 's  owre  the  sea ! 

IV 

O  Fortune,  they  hae  room  to  grumble! 
Hadst  thou  taen  aff  some  drowsy  bummle, 
Wha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  an'  fumble, 

'Twad  been  nae  plea; 
But  he  was  gleg  as  onie  wumble. 

That 's  owre  the  sea! 


Auld,  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear. 
An'  stain  them  wi'  the  saut,  saut  tear: 
'T  will  mak  her  poor  auld  heart,  I  fear, 

In  flinders  flee: 
He  was  her  Laureat  monie  a  year. 

That 's  owre  the  sea! 


He  saw  Misfortune's  cauld  nor- west 
Lang-mustering  up  a  bitter  blast; 
A  jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be! 
So,  took  a  birth  afore  the  mast. 

An'  owre  the  sea. 


To  tremble  under  Fortune's  ciimmock, 
On  scarce  a  bellyfu'  o'  drummock, 
Wi'  his  proud,  independent  stomach, 

Could  ill  agree ; 
So,  row't  his  hurdies  in  a  hammock. 

An'  owre  the  sea. 

VIII 

He  ne'er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding. 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wad  na  bide  in : 
Wi'  him  it  ne'er  was  under  hiding. 
He  dealt  it  free  j 


The  Muse  was  a'  that  he  took  pride  in, 
That 's  oMrre  the  sea. 

IX 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel. 
An'  hap  him  in  a  cozie  biel: 
Ye  '11  find  him  ay  a  dainty  chiel, 

An'  fou  o'  glee: 
He  wad  na  wrang'd  the  vera  Deil, 

That 's  owre  the  sea. 


Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie  ! 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie; 
But  may  ye  flourish  like  a  lily, 

Now  bonilie  ! 
I  '11  toast  you  in  my  hindmost  gillie, 

Tho'  owre  the  sea  ! 


A   DEDICATION 

TO   GAVIN    HAMILTON,    ESQ. 

Gavin  Hamilton  —  to  whom  Burns  here  ded- 
icates the  First  Edition  of  his  poems,  because 
"  I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel,"  was 
descended  from  an  old  AjTshire  family,  the 
Hamiltons  of  Kype.  The  fifth  son  of  John 
Hamilton  of  Kype  —  who  was  settled  as  a 
Writer  in  Mauehline  —  by  his  first  wife,  Jaco- 
bina  King,  he  was  bora  in  1751,  probably  in 
November,  as  he  was  baptized  on  the  20th  of 
that  month ;  succeeded  his  father  as  solicitor 
in  Mauehline,  occupying  a  castellated  mansion, 
now  partly  in  ruins,  hard  by  the  churchyard  ; 
and  sublet  the  farm  of  Mossgiel  to  Burns  and 
his  brother  Gilbert.  Like  the  poet,  he  sym- 
pathised with  liberalism  in  religion,  and  they 
became  warm  fi-iends.  He  was  prosecuted  in 
the  autumn  of  1784  by  the  Kirk-Session  of 
Mauehline  for  neglect  of  public  ordinances  and 
other  irregularities ;  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
Session,  affirming  that  its  proceedings  were 
dictated  by  "private  pique  and  ill -nature." 
The  accusation  is  corroborated  by  Cromek, 
who  states  that  the  Rev.  William  Auld  of 
Mauehline  had  quarrelled  with  Hamilton's  fa- 
ther (in  all  probability  the  true  cause  of  both 
the  quarrel  with  the  father  and  the  Sessional 
prosecution  of  the  son  was  the  hereditary 
Episcopacy  of  the  Hamiltons).  Ultimately, 
through  the  intervention  of  the  Presbytery  of 
Ayr,  Gavin  Hamilton  compelled  the  Session, 
ou  17th  July,  1785,  to  grant  him  a  certificate 
that   he    was    "  free   from   public   scandal  or 


42 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN  THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


ground  of  Church  censure  known  "  to  them  :  a 
triumph  celebrated  in  Holy  Willie's  Prayer. 
He  was  again  prosecuted  by  the  Session  for 
causing  his  servants  to  dig  new  potatoes  in  his 
garden  on  the  "  last  Lord's  day  "  of  July,  1787. 
He  died  5th  February,  1805.  Hamilton's 
character  is  very  fully  portrayed  iii  the  Dedi- 
cation, and  incisively  in  his  Epitaph  (p.  55). 
Several  letters  from  Burns  to  him  are  pub- 
lished, including  a  Rhyming  Epistle  and  Stanzas 
on  Naething ;  and  there  are  references  to  him 
in  Holy  Willie's  Prayer,  the  Epistle  to  John 
M'Math,  and  The  Farewell. 

Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 
A  fleechin,  fleth'rin  Dedication, 
To  roose  you  up,  an'  ca'  you  guid, 
An'  sprung  o'  great  an'  noble  bluid, 
Because  ye  're  surnam'd  like  His  Grace, 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race: 
Then,  when  I  'm  tired  —  and  sae  are  ye, 
Wi'  monie  a  fulsome,  siiifu'  lie  — 
Set  up  a  face  how  I  stop  short, 
For  fear  your  modesty  be  huxt. 

This  may  do  —  maun  do,  sir,  wi'  them 
wha 
Maun  please  the  great-folk  for  a  wamefou'; 
For  me  !  sae  laigh  I  need  na  bow, 
For,  Lord  be  thankit,  I  can  plough; 
And  when  I  downa  yoke  a  naig, 
Then,  Lord  be  thankit,  I  can  beg; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  an'  that 's  nae  flatt'rin. 
It 's  just  sic  poet  an'  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him, 
Or  else,  I  fear,  some  ill  ane  skelp  him  ! 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he  's  done  yet. 
But  only  he  's  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  Patron  (sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me; 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  me), 
On  ev'ry  hand  it  will  allow'd  be, 
He 's  just  —  nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readily  and  freely  grant, 
He  downa  see  a  poor  man  want; 
What  's  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it; 
What  ance  he  says,  he  winna  break  it; 
Ought  he  can  lend  he  '11  no  refuse  't, 
Till  aft  his  guidness  is  abus'd; 
And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang, 
Ev'n  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  lang; 
As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father. 
He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 


But  then,  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that; 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca'  that; 
It 's  naething  but  a  milder  feature 
Of  our  poor,  sinfu',  corrupt  nature: 
Ye  '11  get  the  best  o'  moral  works, 
'Mang  black  Gentoos,  and  pagau  Turks, 
Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 
That  he  's  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need. 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 
It 's  no  thro'  terror  of  damnation: 
It 's  just  a  carnal  inclination, 
And  och  !  that 's  nae  regeneration. 

Morality,  thou  deadly  bane. 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain  ! 
Vain  is  his  hope,  whase  stay  an'  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  ! 

No  —  stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack; 
Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back; 
Steal  thro'  the  winnock  frae  a  whore, 
But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door; 
Be  to  the  poor  like  onie  whunstane, 
And  baud  their  noses  to  the  grunStane; 
Ply  ev'ry  art  o'  legal  thieving; 
No  matter —  stick  to  sound  believing. 

Learn  three-mile  pray'rs,  an'  half-mile 

graces, 
Wi'    weel  -  spread   looves,   an'    lang,    wry 

faces ; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengthen'd  groan, 
And  damn  a'  parties  but  your  own; 
I  '11  warrant  then,  ye  're  nae  deceiver, 
A  steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

O  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  o'  Calvin, 
For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin  ! 
Ye  sons  of  Heresy  and  Error, 
Ye  '11  some  day  squeel  in  quaking  terror. 
When   Vengeance    draws    the    sword    in 

wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath; 
When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom, 
Just  frets  till  Heav'n  commission  gies  him; 
While  o'er  the  harp  pale  Misery  moans. 
And  strikes  the  ever-deep'ning  tones. 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  ! 

Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this  digression: 
I  maist  forgat  my  Dedication; 
But  when  divinity  comes  'cross  me. 
My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 


TO    A   LOUSE 


43 


So,  sir,  you  see  't  was  nae  daft  vapour; 
But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper, 
Wheu  a'  my  works  I  did  review, 
To  dedicate  them,  sir,  to  you: 
Because  (ye  need  ua  tak'  it  ill), 
I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel. 

Then  patronize  them  wi'  your  favor, 

And  your  petitioner  shall  ever 

I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray. 

But  that 's  a  word  I  need  na  say; 

For  prayin,  I  hae  little  skill  o't; 

I  'm  baith  dead-sweer,  an'  wretched  ill  o'tj^ 

But  I  'se  repeat  each  poor  man's  pray'r. 

That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  sir: 

"  May  ne'er  Misfortune's  gowling  bark 
Howl  thro'  the  dwelling  o'  the  clerk  ! 
May  ne'er  his  gen'rous,  honest  heart. 
For  that  same  gen'rous  spirit  smart  ! 
May  Kennedy's  far-honor'd  name 
Lang  beet  his  hymeneal  flame, 
Till  Hamiltons,  at  least  a  dizzen, 
Are  frae  their  nuptial  labors  risen: 
Five  bonie  lasses  round  their  table, 
And  sev'n  braw  fellows,  stout  au'  able, 
To  serve  their  king  an'  country  weel, 
By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel  ! 
May  Health  and  Peace,  with  mutual  rays. 
Shine  on  the  ev'ning  o'  his  days; 
Till  his  wee,  curlie  John's  ier-oe, 
When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow. 
The  last,  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow  !  " 

I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion. 
With  complimentary  effusion; 
But,  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are  blest  with   Fortune's  smiles  and  fa- 
vours, 
I  am,  dear  sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent. 
Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  Pow'rs  above  prevent) 
That  iron-hearted  carl,  Want, 
Attended,  in  his  grim  advances. 
By  sad  mistakes,  and  black  mischances. 
While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly 

him, 
Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am. 
Your  "  humble  servant"  then  no  more; 
For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor  ? 
But,  by  a  poor  man's  hopes  in  Heav'n  ! 
While  recollection's  pow'r  is  giv'n, 
If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life, 
The  victim  sad  of  Fortune's  strife, 


I,  thro'  the  tender-gushing  tear, 
Should  recognise  my  master  dear; 
If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together. 
Then,   sir,   your  hand  —  my  Friend  and 
Brother  I 


f) 


TO   A    LOUSE 


SEEING  ONE  ON  A  LADY'S  BONNET  AT 
CHURCH 


Ha  !  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie  ? 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly, 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 

Owre  gauze  and  lace, 
Tho'  faith  !  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 


Ye  ugly,  creepin,  blastit  wonner, 
Detested,  shunn'd  by  saunt  an'  sinner, 
How  daur  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her  — 

Sae  fine  a  lady  ! 
Gae  somewhere  else  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 


Swith  !  in  some  beggar's  hauffet  squattle: 
There   ye    may    creep,   and    sprawl,    and 

sprattle, 
Wi'  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations; 
Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  daur  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 


Now  hand  you  there  !  ye  're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rils,  snug  an'  tight; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye  '11  no  be  right. 

Till  ye  've  got  on  it  — 
The  vera  tapmost,  tow'ring  height 

O'  Miss's  bonnet. 


My  sooth  !  right   bauld  ye  set  your   nose 

out. 
As  plump  an'  grey  as  onie  grozet: 

0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet. 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum, 

1  'd  gie  ye  sic  a  hearty  dose  o  't. 

Wad  dress  your  droddum. 


44 


POEMS    CHIEFLY    IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


I  wad  ua  been  surpiis'd  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy; 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On  's  wyliecoat; 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi  I  fye  ! 

How  daur  ye  do  't  ? 


O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread  ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie  's  makin  ! 
Thae  winks  an'  finger-ends,  I  dread. 

Are  notice  takin  ! 


/ 


K 


O  wad  some  Power  the  gif  tie  gie  us 

To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us  ! 

It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us. 

An'  foolish  notion: 
What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e  us. 

An'  ev'n  devotion  ! 


EPISTLE   TO   J.   LAPRAIK 

AN   OLD    SCOTTISH     BARD,   APRIL    I,    1785 

John  Lapraik,  whose  song  When  I  upon  Thy 
Bosom  Lean  "  so  thirl'd  the  heart-strings  "  of 
Burns,  was  descended  from  an  old  Ayrshire 
family,  which  for  several  generations  possessed 
the  estate  of  Laigh  Dalquhram,  near  Muirkirk. 
He  was  bom  in  1727  ;  succeeded  to  the  estate 
on  the  death  of  his  father,  and  also  rented  the 
farm  and  mill  of  Muirsmill  ;  lost  his  estate  and 
all  his  means  by  the  failure  of  the  Ayr  Bank 
in  1772  ;  was  inspired  by  Bums's  success  to 
publish  Poems  on  Several  Occasions  (1788)  ;  and 
died  7th  May,  1807. 

Lapraik's  song,  so  warmly  praised  by  Bums, 
and  afterwards  sent  by  him  for  insertion  to 
Johnson's  Museum,  iii.  214  (1790),  closely  re- 
sembles one  in  Ruddiman's  Weekly  Magazine, 
11th  October,  1773,  When  on  Thy  Bosom  I  Be- 
cline,  dated  Edinburgh,  11th  October,  and 
signed  "  Happy  Husband."  It  has  been  too 
rashly  inferred  that  Lapraik  plagiarised  from 
this  lyric  :  he  may  have  written  it  himself. 
Another,  When  West  Winds  did  Blow,  which 
Bums  also  sent  to  Johnson,  is  not  without 
merit.  The  original  Epistle  was  at  one  time  in 
the  possession  of  Sir  Robert  Jardine,  and  the 
piece  is  also  entered  in  the  First  Common  Place 
Book  under  date  June,  1785. 


While     briers     an'    woodbines     budding 

green, 
And  paitricks  scraichin  loud  at  e'en, 
An'  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen, 

Inspire  my  Muse, 
This  freedom,  in  an  unknown  frien' 

I  pray  excuse. 


On  Fasten-e'en  we  had  a  rockin. 

To  ca'  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin; 

And  there  was  muckle  fun  and  jokin. 

Ye  need  na  doubt; 
At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin. 

At  "  sang  about." 

Ill 

There  was  ae  sang,  among  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleas'd  me  best. 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife: 
It  thirl'd  the  heart-strings  thro'  the  breast, 

A'  to  the  life. 


I  've  scarce  heard  ought  describ'd  sae  weel, 
What  gen'rous,  manly  bosoms  feel; 
Thought  I,  "  Can  this  be  Pope  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie's  wark  ?  " 
They  tald  me  't  was  an  odd  kind  chiel 

About  Muirkirk. 


It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear  't. 
An'  sae  about  him  there  I  spier't; 
Then  a'  that  kent  him  round  declar'd 

He  had  iugi'ne; 
That  nane  excell'd  it,  few  cam  near  't, 

It  was  sae  fine: 

VI 

That,  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale. 

An'  either  douce  or  merry  tale. 

Or  rhymes  an'  sangs  he  'd  made  himsel, 

Or  witty  catches, 
'Tween  Inverness  an'  Teviotdale, 

He  had  few  matches. 

VII 

Then  up  I  gat,  an'  swoor  an  aith, 

Tho'  I  should  pawn  my  pleugh  an'  graith. 

Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's  death. 

At  some  dyke-back, 


I 


EPISTLE   TO   J.   LAPRAIK 


45 


A  pint  an'  gill  I  'd  gie  them  baith, 
To  hear  your  crack. 


j   But,  first  au'  foremost,  I  should  tell, 

Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
J   I  to  the  crambo-jiugle  fell; 

Tho'  rude  an'  rough  — 
Yet  crooning  to  a  body's  sel, 

Does  weel  eneusrh. 


I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense; 

But  just  a  rhymer  like  by  chance, 

An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence; 

Yet,  what  the  matter  ? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 


Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say,  "  How  can  you  e'er  propose. 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang  ?  " 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye  're  maybe  wrang. 

XI 

What 's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  Schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools  ? 
If  honest  Nature  made  you  fools. 

What  sairs  your  grammers  ? 
Ye  'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools. 

Or  knappin-hammers. 


A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college-classes. 
They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak ; 
An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek  ! 

XIII 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire. 

That 's  a'  the  learning  I  desire ; 

Then,  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  Muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 


O  for  a  spunk  o'  Allan's  glee, 

Or  Fergusson's,  the  bauld  an'  slee, 


Or  bright  Lapraik's,  my  friend  to  be, 
If  I  can  hit  it ! 

That  would  be  lear  eneugh  for  me. 
If  I  could  get  it. 

XV 

Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 
Tho'  real  friends  I  b'lieve  are  few; 
Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fow, 

I  'se  no  insist: 
But,  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that 's  true, 

I  'm  on  your  list. 


I  winna  blaw  about  mysel, 

As  ill  I  like  my  fauts  to  tell; 

But  friends,  an'  folks  that  wish  me  well. 

They  sometimes  roose  me; 
Tho',  I  maun  own,  as  monie  still 

As  far  abuse  me. 


There  's   ae  wee   faut  they  whyles  lay  to 

me, 
I  like  the  lasses  —  Gude  forgie  me  ! 
For  monie  a  plack  they  wheedle  frae  me 

At  dance  or  fair; 
Maybe  some  ither  thing  they  gie  me, 

They  weel  can  spare. 


But  Mauchline  Race  or  Mauchline  Fair, 
I  shoiUd  be  proud  to  meet  you  there: 
We  'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  care, 

If  we  forgather; 
And  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin-ware 

Wi'  ane  anither. 


The  four-gill  chap,   we  'se  gar  him   clat- 
ter. 
An'  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin  water; 
Syne  we  '11  sit  down  an'  tak  our  whitter, 

To  cheer  our  heart; 
An'  faith,  we  'se  be  acquainted  better 

Before  we  part. 


Awa  ye  selfish,  warly  race, 

Wha  think  that  bavins,  sense,  an'  grace, 

Ev'n  love  an'  friendship  should  give  place 

To  Catch-the-Plack  ! 
I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  vour  crack. 


46 


POEMS    CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


XXI 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

"  Each  aid  the  others," 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms, 

My  friends,  my  brothers  ! 


But,  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 

As  my  auld  pen  's  worn  to  the  grissle, 

Twa  lines  frae  you  wad  gar  me  fissle, 

Who  am  most  fervent. 
While  I  can  either  sing  or  whistle. 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK 

APRIL  21,   1785 

Entered  in  the  First  Common  Place  Book 
under  the  first  Epistle  with  this  explanation : 
"  On  receiving  an  answer  to  the  above  I  wrote 
the  following." 


While  new-ca'd  kye  rowte  at  the  stake 
An'  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 
This  hour  on  e'enin's  edge  I  take. 

To  own  I  'm  debtor 
To  honest-hearted,  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 


Forjesket  sair,  with  weary  legs, 
Rattlin  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs, 
Or  dealing  thro'  amang  the  naigs 

Their  ten-hours'  bite. 
My  awkart  Muse  sair  pleads  and  begs, 

I  would  na  write. 


The  tapetless,  ramfeezl'd  hizzie. 

She  's  saft  at  best  an'  something  lazy: 

Quo'  she:  "  Ye  ken  we  've  been  sae  busy 

This  month  an'  raair, 
That  trowth,  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 

An'  something  sair." 


Her  dovsrff  excuses  pat  me  mad: 

"  Conscience,"  says  I,  "  ye  thowless  jad ! 


I  '11  write,  an'  that  a  hearty  blaud, 
This  vera  night; 

So  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right. 


"  Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o'  hearts, 
Tho'  mankind  were  a  pack  o'  cartes, 
Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts. 

In  terms  sae  friendly; 
Yet  ye  '11  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts 

An'  thank  him  kindly  ?  " 

VI 

Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink. 

An'  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink: 

Quoth  I:  "  Before  I  sleep  a  wink, 

I  vow  I  '11  close  it: 
An'  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink. 

By  Jove,  I  '11  prose  it  ! " 


Sae  I  've  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 
In  rhyme,  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither, 
Or  some  hotch-potch  that 's  rightly  neither, 

Let  time  mak  proof; 
But  I  shall  scribble  down  some  blether 

Just  clean  aff-loof. 


My  worthy  friend,  ne'er  grudge  an'  carp, 
Tho'  Fortune  use  you  hard  an'  sharp; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland  harp 

Wi'  gleesome  touch  f 
Ne'er  mind  how  Fortune  waft  an'  warp; 

She  's  but  a  bitch. 


She  's  gien  me  monie  a  jirt  an'  fleg, 
Sin'  I  could  striddle  owre  a  rig; 
But,  by  the  Lord,  tho'  I  should  beg 

Wi'  lyart  pow, 
I  '11  laugh  an'  sing,  an'  shake  my  leg, 

As  lang 's  I  dow  ! 


Now  comes  the  sax-an-twentieth  simmer 
I  've  seen  the  bud  upo'  the  timmer, 
Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer 

Frae  year  to  year; 
But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

I,  Rob,  am  here. 


TO   WILLIAM   SIMPSON   OF  OCHILTREE 


47 


Do  ye  env^  the  city  gent, 

Behint  a  kist  to  lie  an'  sklent; 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi'  cent,  per  cent. 

An'  muckle  wame, 
In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

A  bailie's  name  ? 


Or  is 't  the  paughty  feudal  thane, 
Wi'  ruffl'd  sark  an'  glancing  cane, 
Wha  thinks  himsel  nae  sheep-shank  bane, 

But  lordly  stalks ; 
While  caps  an'  bonnets  aff  are  taen, 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

XIII 

**  O  Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift  f 

Gie  me  o'  wit  an'  sense  a  lift. 

Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift 

Thro'  Scotland  wide; 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift, 

In  a'  their  pride  ! " 


Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 
"  On  pain  o'  hell  be  rich  an'  great," 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate, 

Beyond  remead; 
But,  thanks  to  heaven,  that 's  no  the  gate 

We  learn  our  creed. 

XV 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 
When  first  the  human  race  began: 
"  The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 

Whate'er  he  be, 
'T  is  he  fulfils  great  Nature's  plan. 

And  none  but  he." 

XVI 

O  mandate  glorious  and  divine! 
The  followers  o'  the  ragged  Nine  — 
Poor,  thoughtless  devils !  —  yet  may  shine 

In  glorious  light; 
While  sordid  sons  o'  Mammon's  line 

Are  dark  as  night ! 

XVII 

Tho'   here   they  scrape,   an'   squeeze,   an' 

growl. 
Their  worthless  neivefu'  of  a  soul 
May  in  some  future  carcase  howl, 
The  forest's  fright; 


Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

XVIII 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 
To  reach  their  native,  kindred  skies, 
And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes  an'  joys, 

In  some  mild  sphere; 
Still  closer  knit  in  friendship's  ties. 

Each  passing  year ! 


TO   WILLIAM    SIMPSON    OF 
OCHILTREE 

MAY,    1785 

The  "  winsome  Willie  "  of  this  Epistle  was 
William  Simpson,  son  of  John  Simpson,  farmer 
in  Ten-Pound  Land,  in  the  parish  of  Ochiltree. 
He  was  born  23d  August,  1758 ;  was  educated 
at  the  University  of  Glasgow  ;  became  parish 
schoolmaster  of  Ochiltree  in  1780,  and  in  1788 
of  Cumnock  ;  and  died  4th  July,  1815.  It  haa 
been  inferred  that  the  piece  which  drew  the 
flattering  letter  from  him  was  The  Twa  Herds. 
But  the  inference  is  not  supported  by  the  evi- 
dence adduced  —  the  statement  of  Burns  him- 
self, that  he  gave  a  copy  of  that  satire  to  "  a 
particvdar  friend  ;  "  for  Burns  affirmed  to  this 
same  friend  that  he  did  not  know  who  was  the 
author,  and  had  got  a  copy  by  accident. 


I  GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie ; 
Wi'  gratefu'  heart  I  thank  you  brawlie; 
Tho'  I  maun  say  't,  I  wad  be  silly 

And  unco  vain. 
Should  I  believe,  my  coaxin  billie. 

Your  flatterin  strain. 


But  I  'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it: 
I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented. 

On  my  poor  Mnsie; 
Tho'  in  sic  phraisin  terms   ye  Ve  penn'd 
it, 

I  scarce  excuse  ye. 

Ill 
My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel, 
Should  I  but  dare  a  hope  to  speel, 
Wi'  Allan,  or  wi'  Gilbertfield, 

The  braes  o'  fame; 


48 


POEMS   CHIEFLY    IN    THE    SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


Or  Fergusson,  the  writer-chiel, 

A  deathless  name. 


(O  Fergusson  !  thy  glorious  parts 

111  suited  law's  dry,  musty  arts  ! 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  E'nbrugh  gentry  ! 
The  tythe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 

Wad  stow'd  his  pantry  !) 


Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head. 
Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a  screed  — 
As  whyles  they  're  like  to  be  my  dead, 

(O  sad  disease  !) 
I  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed ; 

It  gies  me  ease. 


Anld  Coila,  now,  may  fidge  fu'  fain. 
She  's  gotten  bardies  o'  her  ain; 
Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain. 

But  tune  their  lays, 
Till  echoes  a'  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 


Nae  Poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 
To  set  her  name  in  measur'd  style ; 
She  lay  like  some  unkend-of  isle 

Beside  New  Holland, 
Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 

Besouth  Magellan. 


Ramsay  an'  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  an'  Tay  a  lift  aboon; 
Yarrow  an'  Tweed,  to  monie  a  tune, 

Owre  Scotland  rings; 
While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  an'  Doon 

Naebody  sings. 

IX 

Th'  missus,  Tiber,  Thames,  an'  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu'  line: 
But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine. 

An'  cock  your  crest  ! 
We  '11  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 

Up  wi'  the  best. 


We  '11  sing  auld  CoUa's  plains  an'  fells. 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi'  heather  bells. 


Her  banks  an'  braes,  her  dens  an'  dells, 
Whare  glorious  Wallace 

Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  Suthron  billies. 

XI 

At  Wallace'  name,  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood  ? 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side. 
Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat-shod, 

Or  glorious  dy'd  ! 


O,  sweet  are  Coda's  haughs  an'  woods, 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds. 
And  jinkin  hares,  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy; 
While  thro'  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

With  wailfu'  cry  ! 


Ev'n  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me, 
When  winds  rave  thro'  the  naked  tree; 
Or  frosts  on  hUls  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  gray; 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Dark'ning  the  day  ! 


O  Nature  !  a'  thy  shews  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  ! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi'  life  an'  Ught; 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms. 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 


The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her. 
Till  by  himsel  he  learn'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trottin  burn's  meander, 

An'  no  think  lang: 
O,  sweet  to  stray,  an'  pensive  ponder 

A  heart-felt  sang  ! 

XVI 

The  warly  race  may  drudge  an'  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch,  an'  strive; 
Let  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive, 

And  I,  wi'  pleasure. 
Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  hive 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 


TO  WILLIAM   SIMPSON  OF  OCHILTREE 


49 


Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  brither  ! 
We  've  been  owre  lang  unkeud  to  itber: 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal: 
May  Envy  wallop  in  a  tether, 

Black  fiend,  infernal ! 


While  Highlandmen  hate  tolls  an'  taxes; 
While  moorlan'  herds  like  guid,  fat  brax- 

ies; 
While  Terra  Firma,  on  her  axis, 

Diurnal  turns; 
Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  an'  practice, 
In  Robert  Burns. 


POSTSCRIPT 


My  memory  's  no  worth  a  preen: 

I  had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 

By  this  New-Light, 
'Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 

Maist  like  to  fight. 


In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans; 

At  grammar,  logic,  an'  sic  talents. 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance, 

Or  rules  to  gie; 
But   spak   their   thoughts   in   plain,  braid 
Lallans, 

Like  you  or  me. 

XXI 

In  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon. 
Just  like  a  sark,  or  pair  o'  shoon. 
Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon 

Gaed  past  their  viewin; 
An'  shortly  after  she  was  done. 

They  gat  a  new  ane. 

xxn 

Tbis  past  for  certain,  undisputed; 

It  ne'er  cam  i'  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 

Till  chiels  gat  up  an'  wad  confute  it. 

An'  ca'd  it  wrang; 
An'  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  an'  lang. 


XXIII 

Some  herds,  weel  learn'd  upo'  the  Beuk, 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk; 
For  't  was  the  auld  moon  turn'd  a  neuk 

An'  out  o'  sight. 
An'  backlins-comin  to  the  leuk. 

She  grew  mair  bright. 

XXIV 

This  was  deny'd,  it  was  affirm'd; 

The  herds  and  hissels  were  alarm'd; 

The  rev'rend  gray-beards  rav'd  an'  storm'd. 

That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform'd 

Than  their  auld  daddies. 

XXV 

Frae  less  to  mair,  it  gaed  to  sticks; 
Frae  words  an'  aiths,  to  clours  an'  nicks; 
An'  monie  a  fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi'  hearty  crunt; 
An'  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks. 

Were  hang^'d  an'  brunt. 


This  game  was  play'd  in  monie  lands, 
An'  Anld-Light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 
That  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 

Wi'  nimble  shanks 
Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands. 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 


But  New-Light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe, 
Folk  thought  them  ruin'd  stick-an-stowe ; 
Till  now,  amaist  on  ev'ry  knowe 

Ye  '11  find  ane  placed ; 
An'  some,  their  New-Light  fair  avow. 

Just  quite  barefac'd. 

XXVIII 

Nae    doubt    the   Auld  -  Light    flocks    are 

bleatin ; 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex'd  and  sweatin; 
Mysel,  I  've  even  seen  them  greetin 

Wi'  girnin  spite. 
To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  He'd  on 

By  word  an'  write. 


But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  louns  ! 
Some  Anld-Light  herds  in  neebor  tonus 
Are  mind't,  in  things  they  ca'  balloons. 
To  tak  a  flight, 


5° 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE    SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


An'  stay  ae  month  amang  the  moons 
An'  see  them  right. 


Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them; 

An'  when  the  auld  moon's  gaun  to  lea'e 

them, 
The  hindmost  shaird,  they  '11  fetch  it  wi' 
them, 

Just  i'  their  pouch; 
An'  when  the  New-Light  billies  see  them, 
I  think  they  '11  crouch  ! 

XXXI 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a'  this  clatter 

Is  naething  but  a  "moonshine  matter;  " 

But  tho'  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 

In  logic  tulzie, 
I  hope  we.  Bardies,  ken  some  better 

Than  mind  sic  brulzie. 


EPISTLE    TO   JOHN    RANKINE 

ENCLOSING   SOME   POEMS 

Rankine  was  farmer  at  Adamhill,  in  the 
parish  of  Ciaigie,  near  Lochlie.  His  wit,  his 
dreams  (invented  for  the  purpose  of  roasting 
his  dislikes),  and  his  practical  jokes  were  the 
talk  of  the  country  side.  His  sister,  Mar- 
garet, was  the  first  wife  of  John  Lapraik,  and 
his  daughter,  Anne,  afterwards  Mrs.  Merry, 
vaunted  herself  the  heroine  of  The  Rigs  o' 
Barley.  Burns  also  addressed  to  Rankine  a 
Reply  to  an  Announcement,  and  complimented 
him  in  an  Epitaph  as  the  one  "  honest  man  "  in 
"  a  mixtie-maxtie  motley  squad." 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  last  seven  stanzas 
of  this  piece  set  forth  an  account  in  good  vene- 
real slang  —  e.  g.  "  straik  "  (i.  e.  "  stroke  ")  = 
subagitare ;  "hen,"  "wame,"  "tail,"  "gun," 
"  feathers,"  and  so  forth  —  of  Bums' s  amour 
with  Elizabeth  Paton,  by  whom  he  had  an  ille- 
gitimate child  (November,  1784),  and  with 
whom  he  did  penance  by  order  of  the  Session. 


O  ROUGH,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine, 
The  wale  o'  cocks  for  fun  an'  drinkin  ! 
There  's  monie  godly  folks  are  thinkin' 

Your  dreams  and  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin 

Straught  to  Auld  Nick's. 


Ye  hae  sae  monie  cracks  an'  cants, 
And  in  your  wicked  drucken  rants, 
Ye  mak  a  devil  o'  the  saunts. 

An'  fill  them  fou'; 
And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  an'  wants 

Are  a'  seen  thro'. 


Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 

That  holy  robe,  O,  dinna  tear  it  ! 

Spare  't  for  their  sakes,  wha  af ten  wear  it  — ■ 

The  lads  in  black; 
But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 

Rives 't  afP  their  back. 

IV 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye  're  skaithing: 
It 's  just  the  Blue-gown  badge  an'  claithing 
O'  saunts;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  naething 

To  ken  them  by 
Frae  onie  unregenerate  heathen. 

Like  you  or  I. 


I  've  sent  you  here  some  rhyming  ware 
A'  that  I  bargain'd  for,  an'  mair; 
Sae,  when  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I  will  expect. 
Yon  sang  ye  '11  sen't,  wi'  cannie  care, 

And  no  neglect. 


Tho'  faith,  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  sing: 
My  Muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing  ! 
I  've  play'd  mysel  a  bonie  spring. 

An'  danc'd  ray  fill  ! 
I  'd  better  gaen  an'  sair't  the  King 

At  Bunker's  Hill. 


'T  was  ae  night  lately,  in  my  fun, 

I  gaed  a  rovin  wi'  the  gun, 

An'  brought  a  paitrick  to  the  grun'  — 

A  bonie  hen; 
And,  as  the  twilight  was  begun. 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 

VIII 

The  poor,  wee  thing  was  little  hurt; 
I  straikit  it  a  wee  for  sport, 
Ne'er  thinkin  they  wad  fash  me  for  't; 
But,  Deil-ma-care ! 


SONG 


51 


Somebody  tells  the  Poacher-Court 
The  hale  aifair. 

IX 

Some  auld,  us'd  hands  had  taen  a  uote, 
That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot; 
I  was  suspected  for  the  plot; 

I  scorn'd  to  lie; 
So  gat  the  whissle  o'  my  groat, 

An'  pay't  the  fee. 


But,  by  my  gun,  o'  guns  the  wale, 
An'  by  my  pouther  an'  ray  hail, 
An'  by  my  hen,  an'  by  her  tail, 

I  vow  an'  swear  ! 
The  game  shall  pay,  owre  moor  an'  dale, 

For  this,  uiest  year  ! 


As  soon  'b  the  clockin-tirae  is  by, 
An'  the  wee  pouts  begun  to  cry, 
Lord,  I  'se  hae  sportin  by  an'  by 

For  my  gowd  guinea; 
Tho'  I  should  herd  the  buckskin  kye 

For  't,  in  Virginia  ! 


Trowth,  they  had  muckle  for  to  blame  ! 
'T  was  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb, 
But  twa-three  chaps  about  the  wame, 

Scarce  thro'  the  feathers; 
An'  baith  a  yellow  George  to  claim 

An'  thole  their  blethers  ! 

XIII 

It  pita  me  ay  as  mad  's  a  hare ; 

So  I  can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair; 

But  pennyworths  again  is  fair. 

When  time  's  expedient: 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient. 


SONG 

Tune  :  Com  Rigs 

In  an  interleaved  copy  of  Johnson's  Museum. 
Burns  remarks  :  "  All  the  old  words  that  ever 
I  could  meet  to  this  were  the  following,  which 
seem  to  have  been  an  old  chorus  :  — 

"  '  O  com  riffS  and  rye  rigs, 
O  com  rigs  are  bonie, 
And  whene'er  you  meet  a  bonnie  lass, 
Preen  up  her  cockemony.'  " 


The  last  song  in  Ramsay's  Gentle  Shepherd, 
My  Patie  is  a  Lover  Gay,  to  the  tune  Corn  Rigs 
are  Bonny,  concludes  as  follows  :  — 

"  Then  I  '11  comply  and  marry  Pate, 
And  syne  my  cockemony 
He 's  free  to  touzle  air  and  late 
Where  corn  rigs  are  bonny." 

Burns  wrote  to  George  Thomson  :  "  My  Pattie 
is  a  Lover  Gay  —  is  uuequal.  '  His  mind  is 
never  muddy '  is  a  muddy  expression  indeed. 

"  '  Then  I  'U  resign  (.s^ic)  and  marry  Pate, 
And  syne  my  cockemony,'  etc. 

This  is  surely  far  unworthy  of  Ramsay,  or  of 
your  work."  With  characteristic  deference 
he  added:  "  My  song,  Bigs  0'  Barley,  to  the 
same  tune,  does  not  altogether  please  me,  but 
if  I  can  mend  it,  I  will  submit  it  to  your  con- 
sideration." Thomson  disregarded  this  modest 
offer :  ''  My  Patie  is  a  Lover  Gay,  though  a 
little  unequal,  is  a  natural  and  pleasing  song, 
and  I  humbly  think  we  ought  not  to  displace 
it  or  alter  it  except  the  last  stanza." 

In  his  Autobiographical  Letter  to  Dr.  Moore, 
Burns  includes  this  admirable  lyric  among  the 
"  rhymes  "  of  his  "  early  days,"  composed  before 
his  twenty-third  year.  But  its  accomplishment 
is  finer  than  he  had  then  compassed,  and.  as  in 
the  case  of  the  lyric  that  follows.  Now  Westlin'' 
Winds,  the  early  version  was  probably  a  mere 
fragmentary  suggestion  of  the  later.  Burns  was 
himself  accu.stomed  to  regard  the  last  stanza  as 
a  nearer  approach  to  his  ideal  of  expression  and 
sentiment  than  he  had  achieved  elsewhere.  As 
to  the  heroine  there  is  not  basis  enough  even 
for  conjecture,  though  divei'S  Annies  have 
claimed  the  honour. 


It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 

When  corn  rigs  are  bonie. 
Beneath  the  moon's  unclouded  light, 

I  held  awa  to  Annie; 
The  time  flew  by,  wi'  tentless  heed; 

Till,  'tween  the  late  and  early, 
Wi'  sma'  persuasion  she  agreed 
To  see  me  thro'  the  barley. 
Corn  rigs,  an'  barley  rigs, 
An'  corn  rigs  are  bonie: 
I  '11  ne'er  forget  that  happy  night, 
Amaus:  the  rijrs  wi'  Annie. 


The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still, 
The  moon  was  shining  clearly; 

I  set  her  down,  wi'  right  good  will, 
Araang  the  rigs  o'  barley: 


52 


POEMS    CHIEFLY    IN   THE    SCOTTISH    DIALECT 


I  ken't  her  heart  was  a'  my  ain; 

I  lov'd  her  most  sincerely; 
I  kiss'd  her  owie  and  owre  again, 

Amaug  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

Ill 

I  lock'd  her  in  my  fond  embrace; 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely: 
My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley  ! 
But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright, 

That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly  ! 
She  ay  shall  bless  that  happy  night 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 


I  hae  been  blythe  wi'  comrades  dear; 

I  hae  been  merry  drinking; 
I  hae  been  joyfu'  gath'rin  gear; 

I  hae  been  happy  thinking: 
But  a'  the  pleasures  e'er  I  saw, 

Tho'  three  times  doubl'd  fairly  — 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a', 
Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

Corn  rigs,  an'  barley  rigs. 
An'  corn  rigs  are  bonie: 
I  '11  ne'er  forget  that  happy  night, 
Amaug  the  rigs  wi'  Annie. 


SONG  :    COMPOSED    IN    AUGUST 

Bums  states  in  his  "  autobiographical  letter  " 
that  this  song-  was  the  "  ebullition  "  of  his 
passion  for  a  '"  charming  Jiletie^^  (sic).  Peggy 
Thomson,  who  "overset  his  trigonometry  "  at 
Kirkoswald  when  he  was  in  his  seventeenth 
year.  His  sister,  Mrs.  Begg,  further  affirms 
that  the  passion  was  afterw-ards  revived,  and 
it  has  been  supposed  that  Thomson  is  the 
Peggy  of  his  letter  to  Thomas  Orr  (11th 
November,  1784)  :  "I  am  very  glad  Peggy  is 
off  my  hand."  But  about  this  time  he  had  also 
an  "affair"  with  "  Montgomerie's  Peggy," 
"  which."  as  he  wrote  in  the  First  Common 
Place  Book,  "it  cost  some  heart-aches  to  get 
rid  of."  Peggy  Thomson  became  the  wife  of 
Mr.  Neilson  of  Kirkoswald.  Bums  —  when 
he  was  making  ready  for  the  West  Indies  in 
1786  — presented  her  with  a  copy  of  his  book, 
on  which  he  inscribed  the  lines  beginning  :  — 

"  Once  fondly  loved  and  still  remembered  dear." 


Now  westlin  winds  and  slaught'ring  guns 
Bring  Autumn's  pleasant  weather; 


The  gorcock  springs  on  whirring  wings 

Amang  the  blooming  heather: 
Now  waving  grain,  wide  o'er  the  plain, 

Delights  the  weary  farmer; 
The  moon  shines  bright,  as  I  rove  by  night 

To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 


The  paitrick  lo'es  the  fruitfu'  fells, 

The  plover  lo'es  the  mountains; 
The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells, 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains; 
Thro'  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves. 

The  path  o'  man  to  shun  it; 
The  hazel  bush  o'erhaugs  the  thrush, 

The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 


Thus  ev'ry  kind  their  pleasure  find, 

The  savage  and  the  tender; 
Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine, 

Some  solitary  wander: 
Avaunt,  away,  the  cruel  sway  ! 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion  ! 
The  sportsman's  joy,  the  murd'ring  cry, 

The  flutt'ring,  gory  pinion  ! 


But,  Peggy  dear,  the  evening  's  clear, 

Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow. 
The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view 

All  fading-green  and  yellow: 
Come,  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way 

And  view  the  charms  of  Nature; 
The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn, 

And  ilka  happy  creature. 


We  '11  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk, 

While  the  silent  moon  shines  clearly; 
I  '11  clasp  thy  waist,  and,  fondly  prest. 

Swear  how  I  lo'e  thee  dearly: 
Not  vernal  show'rs  to  budding  flow'rs. 

Not  Autumn  to  the  farmer. 
So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me. 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer  ! 


SONG  :  FROM  THEE,  ELIZA 

Tune  :  Gilderoy 

Bums,  on  hLs  return  to  Mauchline  from  hia 
Border  tour,  wrote  to  James  Smith,  11th  Junej 
1787 :  "  Your  mother,  sister  and  brother,  m; 


I 


EPITAPH   ON   A   HENPECKED    SQUIRE 


53 


quondam  Eliza,  etc.,  all,  all  well."  This  shows 
that  Eliza  lived  in  Mauchline.  She  was  Eliza- 
beth Miller  —  afterward  Mrs.  Templeton  — 
celebrated  in  The  Belles  of  Mauchline  {jiost,  p. 
171)  as  the  "  Miss  Betty  "  who  's  ''  braw."  See 
also  A  Mauchline  Wedding  {post,  p.  114). 


From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go 

And  from  my  native  shore: 
The  cruel  fates  between  us  throw 

A  boundless  ocean's  roar; 
But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide 

Between  my  Love  and  me, 
They  never,  never  can  divide 

My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 


Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  maid  that  I  adore  ! 
A  boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear, 

We  part  to  meet  no  more  ! 
But  the  latest  throb  that  leaves  my  heart. 

While  Death  stands  victor  by. 
That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part. 

And  thine  that  latest  sigh  ! 


THE    FAREWELL 

TO  THE  BRETHREN  OF  ST.  JAMES'S 
LODGE,  TARBOLTON 

Tune  :  Good-night,  and  joy  be  wf  you  a'. 

"At  tliis  time  the  author  intended  going' 
to  Jamaica  "  (ms.  R.  B.  in  a  copy  of  the  '8(5 
Edition  in  the  British  Museum).  Burns 
was  admitted  an  apprentice  of  the  St.  David's 
Lodge,  Tarbolton  (formed  by  the  union  of  the 
St.  James's  with  the  St.  David's),  4th  July, 
1781,  and,  when  a  separation  of  the  Lodges 
occurred  in  June,  1782.  he  adhered  to  the  St. 
James's,  of  which  he  was,  on  22d  July,  1784, 
elected  depute  master.  The  verses,  it  is  sup- 
posed, were  recited  at  a  meeting  of  the  Lodge 
held  on  the  23d  June. 


Adieu  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu ; 

Dear  Brothers  of  the  Mystic  Tie  ! 
Ye  favour'd,  ye  enlighten'd  few, 

Companions  of  my  social  joy  ! 

Tho'  I  to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 
Pursuing  Fortune's  slidd'ry  ba'; 


With  melting  heart  and  brimful  eye, 
I  '11  mind  you  still,  tho'  far  awa. 


Oft  have  I  met  your  social  band, 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night; 
Oft,  honour'd  with  supreme  command, 

Presided  o'er  the  Sons  of  Light; 

And  by  that  Hieroglyphic  bright. 
Which  none  but  Craftsmen  ever  saw  ! 

Strong  Mem'ry  on  my  heart  shall  write 
Those  happy  scenes,  when  far  awa. 

Ill 

May  Freedom,  Harmony,  and  Love, 
Unite  you  in  the  Grand  Design, 

Beneath  th'  Omniscient  Eye  above  — 
The  glorious  Architect  Divine  — 
That  you  may  keep  th'  Unerring  Line^ 

Still  rising  by  the  Plummet's  Law, 
Till  Order  bright  completely  shine. 

Shall  be  my  pray'r,  when  far  awa. 

IV 

And  You,  farewell !  whose  merits  claim 

Justly  that  Highest  Badge  to  wear: 
Heav'n  bless  your  honour'd,  noble  Name^ 

To  Masonry  and  Scotia  dear  ! 

A  last  request  permit  me  here. 
When  yearly  ye  assemble  a'; 

One  round,  I  ask  it  with  a  tear. 
To  liim,  the  Bard  that 's  far  awa. 


EPITAPH  ON   A  HENPECKED 
SQUIRE 

Bums  states  that  the  subject  of  this  epitaph 
was  "  Mr.  Campbell  of  Nethorplace,"  a  man- 
sion a  little  to  the  west  of  Mauchline,  on  the 
road  to  Mossgiel.  It  is  probable  that  Campbell 
—  or  perhaps  his  wife  —  had  given  Burns  some 
particular  offence. 

As  father  Adam  first  was  fool'd, 
A  case  that 's  still  too  common, 

Here  lies  a  man  a  woman  rul'd : 
The  Devil  ruled  the  woman. 


EPIGRAM  ON  SAID    OCCASION 

O  Death,  had'st  thou  but  spar'd  his  life, 
Whom  we  this  day  lament ! 


54 


POEMS   CHIEFLY   IN   THE   SCOTTISH   DIALECT 


We  freely  wad  exchanged  the  wife, 
An'  a'  been  weel  content. 

Ev'n  as  he  is,  cauld  in  his  grafE, 
The  swap  we  yet  will  do  't; 

Tak  thou  the  earlin's  carcase  aff. 
Thou  'se  get  the  saul  o'  boot. 


ANOTHER 

One  Queen  Artemisa,  as  old  stories  tell, 

When  depriv'd  of  her  husband  she  lov^d  so 
well, 

In  respect  for  the  love  and  affection  he  'd 
show'd  her, 

She  reduc'd  him  to  dust  and  she  drank  up 
the  powder. 

But  Queen  Netherplace,  of  a  diff'rent  com- 
plexion, 

When  call'd  on  to  order  the  fun'ral  direc- 
tion. 

Would  have  eat  her  dead  lord,  on  a  slender 
pretence. 

Not  to  show  her  respect,  but  —  to  save  the 
expense ! 


EPITAPHS 

ON  A  CELEBRATED   RULING 
ELDER 

In  the  Author's  Edition  the  Elder's  name  is 
indicated  merely  by  asterisks  ;  in  a  copy  of  the 
'86  in  the  British  Museum,  "  Hood "  is  in- 
serted ;  and  in  the  First  Common  Place  Book, 
ander  the  date  April,  1784,  the  heading  is, 
"  Epitaph  on  Wm.  Hood,  senr.  in  Tarbolton." 

Here  Souter  Hood  in  death  does  sleep: 
In  hell,  if  he  's  gane  thither, 

Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear  to  keep; 
He  '11  baud  it  weel  thegither. 


ON  A  NOISY  POLEMIC 

James  Humphry,  a  mason  in  Mauchline, 
with  no  doubt  of  his  ability  to  debate  with 
Bums.     He  died  in  1844. 

Below  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie's  banes : 
O  Death,  it 's  my  opinion, 


Thou  ne'er  took  such  a  bleth'rin  bitch 
Into  thy  dark  domijiion. 


ON  WEE  JOHNIE 

It  is  common  to  assume  that  Bums  meant 
this  for  his  own  printer,  John  Wilson  of  Kil- 
marnock ;  but  there  was  a  bookseller  in  Mauch- 
line, also  of  diminutive  stature,  named  John 
Wilson.  It  has  further  been  denoted,  by  Cham- 
bers, that  the  trifle  is  a  literal  translation  of  a 
Latin  epigram  in  Nugoe  Venales,  1(563. 

Hie  jacet  wee  Johnie 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  O  reader,  know, 
That  Death  has  murder'd  Johnie, 

An'  here  his  body  lies  fu'  low  —  j 

For  saul  he  ne'er  had  onie.  i 


FOR   THE   AUTHOR'S    FATHER 

William  Burness  died  at  Lochlie,  1.3th 
February,  1784  ;  and  this  Epitaph  on  my  Ever 
Honoured  Father  was  inserted  in  the  First  Com- 
mon Place  Book  under  the  date  April  of  that 
year.  It  is  engraved  on  the  tombstone  in  Allo- 
way  Churchyard. 

O  YE  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains. 
Draw  near   with    pious    rev'rence,   and 
attend  ! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains, 
The    tender    father,   and    the   gen'rous 
friend. 

The    pitying   heart   that    felt   for   human 
woe, 
The  dauntless  heart  that  fear'd  no  human 
pride, 
The  friend  of  man  —  to  vice  alone  a  foe; 
For  "  ev'n  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's 
side." 


FOR  ROBERT  AIKEN,  Esq. 

Know  thou,  O  stranger  to  the  fame 

Of    this    much    lov'd,    much    honour'd 
name  ! 

(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told), 
A  warmer  heart  Death  ne'er  made  cold. 


A   BARD'S    EPITAPH 


55 


FOR  GAVIN    HAMILTON,   Esq. 

The  poor  man  weeps  —  here  Gavin  sleeps, 
Whom  canting  wretches  blam'd; 

But  with  such  as  he,  where'er  he  be, 
May  I  be  sav'd  or  damn'd. 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 


Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool  ?  - 

Let  him  draw  near; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a  tear. 


Is  there  a  Bard  of  rustic  song, 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  arda  throng  ?  — 
O,  pass  not  by! 


But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong. 

Here,  heave  a  sigh. 


Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career 

Wild  as  the  wave  ?  — 
Here  pause  —  and,  thro'  the  starting  tear. 

Survey  this  grave. 

IV 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low. 

And  stain'd  his  name. 


Reader,  attend  !  whether  thy  soul 
Soars  Fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious,  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION   OF    1787 


On  30th  July  [1783],  the  eve  of  publication 
[of  the  Kilmarnock  Edition  of  Poems  chiefly  in 
the  Scottish  Dialect'],  Burns  wrote  thus  to  Rich- 
mond :  "My  hour  is  now  come,"  and  "  you  and 
I  shall  never  meet  in  Britain  more."  By  the 
end  of  August  nearly  the  whole  impression  was 
subscribed,  and  Burns,  "  after  deducting  all 
expenses,"  pocketed,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  "  nearly  twenty  pounds  :  "  a  much 
smaller  sum  than  is  shown  in  the  account 
between  him  and  Wilson.  "  The  money,"  he 
says,  "  came  in  seasonably,  as  I  was  about  to 
indent  myself  for  want  of  money  to  pay  my 
freight.  As  soon  as  I  was  master  of  nine  guin- 
eas, the  price  of  wafting  me  to  the  torrid  zone, 
I  bespoke  a  passage  in  the  very  first  ship  that 
was  to  sail  — 

"  '  For  hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind.'  " 

Divers  circumstances  combined  to  delay  his 
departure,  and  although  on  the  14th  August 
he  booked  to  sail  on  the  1st  September,  Sep- 
tember passed  and  he  was  still  in  Scotland. 
On  the^  9th  October,  after  settling  accounts 
with  Wilson,  he  offered  him  a  second  edition  : 


"  on  the  hazard  of  being  paid  out  of  the  first 
and  readiest."  Wilson  declined,  and  the  dis- 
appointment more  strongly  confirmed  his  de- 
termination to  leave  the  country.  He  would 
inevitably  have  done  so,  if  he  had  not  chanced 
to  see  a  letter  from  Dr.  Blaeklock  to  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Lawrie,  of  Newmilns,  expressmg  a  strong 
opinion  in  favour  of  a  second  edition,  and  affirm- 
ing that  the  book  might  ' "  obtain  a  more  uni- 
versal circulation  than  anything  of  the  kind  " 
within  the  writer's  memory.  At  this  time  he 
had  taken  "  the  last  farewell  "  of  his  friends  ; 
his  "  chest  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock  ;  "  he 
had  devised  a  song,  The  Gloomy  Night  is  Gath- 
ering Fast,  as  the  "  last  effort  "  of  his  *'  Muse 
in  Caledonia."  But  the  letter  upset  all  his 
schemes,  and  determined  him  to  get  his  verse 
reissued  by  an  Edinburgh  publisher ;  so  he 
"  posted  "  to  the  capital,  '"  without  a  single 
acquaintance  in  town,"  or  "a  single  letter 
of  recommendation  ' '  in  his  pocket.  Through 
the  Earl  of  Glencairn  he  was  introduced  to 
Creech  :  with  the  result  that  a  new  Edition 
(the  First  Edinburgh)  was  ready  for  delivery 
on  the  ISth  April. 


56        ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION   OF    1787 


Three  thousand  copies  were  printed,  for  over 
fifteen  hundred  subscribers :  the  book  being 
entitled  ''  Poems  chiefly  in  the  Scottish  Dialect. 
By  Robert  Burns.  Edinburgh.  Printed  for 
the  Author  and  Sold  by  William  Creech.  1787." 
Many  important  pieces  —  some  written  while 
the  volume  was  going  through  the  press  — 
were  added  ;  but  not  even  in  the  Dedication 
to  the  Caledonian  Hunt  was  there  so  much  as 
a  hint  that  this  was  a  Second  Edition.  [The 
Dedication  is  as  follows  :  — ] 


DEDICATION 

TO  THE  NOBLEMEN  AND  GENTLEMEN  OF  THE 
CALEDONLAN  HUNT 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  —  A  Scottish 
Bard,  proud  of  the  name,  and  whose  highest 
ambition  is  to  sing  in  his  Country's  sei-vice  — 
where  shall  he  so  properly  look  for  patronage 
as  to  the  illustrious  Names  of  his  native  Land ; 
those  who  bear  the  honours  and  inherit  the  vir- 
tues of  their  Ancestors  ?  The  Poetic  Genius 
of  my  Country  found  me  as  the  prophetic  bard 
Elijah  did  Elisha  —  at  the  plough,  and  threw 
her  inspiring  mantle  over  me.  She  hade  me 
sing  the  loves,  the  joys,  the  rural  scenes  and 
rural  pleasures  of  my  natal  Soil,  in  my  native 
tongue :  I  tuned  mj'  wild,  artless  notes,  as 
she  inspired.  She  whispered  me  to  come  to 
this  ancient  metropolis  of  Caledonia,  and  lay 
my  Songs  under  your  honoured  protection :  I 
now  obey  her  dictates. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I 
do  not  approach  you,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 


DEATH  AND  DOCTOR  HORN- 
BOOK 

A   TRUE   STORY 

According  to  Gilbert  Bums,  Hornbook  was 
one  John  Wilson,  parish  schoolmaster  of  Tar- 
bolton.  To  eke  out  his  salary  he  opened  a 
grocer's  shop,  where  he  "added  the  sale  of  a 
few  medicines  to  his  little  trade,"  informing 
the  public  in  a  shop  bill  that  "  advice  wotdd  be 
given  in  common  disorders  at  the  shop  gratis." 
At  a  "  masonic  meeting  at  Tarbolton  in  the 
spring  of  178.5  "  Wilson  happened  to  air  "  his 
medical  skill  "  in  the  presence  of  Burns,  who 
—  says  Gilbert  —  as  he  parted  with  him  in  the 
evening  at  "  the  place  where  he  describes  the 
meeting  with  Death  "  was  visited  by  "one  of 
those  floating  ideas  of  apparitions  he  mentions 
in  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore."   The  visitation  sug- 


in  the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank  you 
for  past  favours ;  that  path  is  so  hackneyed  by 
prostituted  Learning,  that  honest  Rusticity  is 
ashamed  of  it.  Nor  do  I  present  this  Address 
with  the  venal  soul  of  a  servile  Author,  looking 
for  a  continuation  of  those  favours  :  I  w:is  bred 
to  the  Plough,  and  am  independent.  I  come 
to  claim  the  common  Scottish  name  with  you, 
my  illustrious  Countrymen;  and  to  tell  the  world 
that  I  glory  in  the  title.  I  come  to  congratu- 
late my  Country,  that  the  blood  of  her  ancient 
heroes  still  runs  uncontaminated ;  and  that 
from  your  courage,  knowledge,  and  public 
spirit,  she  may  expect  protection,  wealth,  and 
liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I  come  to  proffer 
my  warmest  wishes  to  the  Great  Fountain  of 
Honour,  the  Monarch  of  the  Universe,  for  your 
welfare  and  happiness. 

When  you  go  forth  to  waken  the  Echoes,  in 
the  ancient  and  favorite  amusement  of  your 
Forefathers,  may  Pleasure  ever  be  of  your 
party  ;  and  may  Social-joy  await  your  return  ! 
When  harassed  in  court  or  camps  with  the  jost- 
lings  of  bad  men  and  bad  measures,  may  the 
honest  consciousness  of  injured  Worth  attend 
your  return  to  your  native  Seats  ;  and  may 
Domestic  Happiness,  with  a  smiling  welcome, 
meet  you  at  your  gates !  May  Corruption  shrink 
at  your  kindling,  indignant  glance  ;  and  nlay 
tyranny  in  the  Ruler  and  licentiousness  in  the 
People  equally  find  you  an  inexorable  foe  ! 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the  sincerest 
gratitude  and  highest  respect. 
My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 

Your  most  devoted,  humble  Servant, 
ROBERT  BURNS 

EDiNBtmoH,  April  4,  1787. 


n 


gested  a  train  of  thoughts  which  he  began  run- 
ning into  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook  on  his  way 
home.  If  Lockhart  may  be  believed,  the  satire 
ruined  Wilson  in  Tarbolton :  not  only  was  he 
compelled  to  shut  his  shop,  but  also  he  had 
presently  to  close  his  school.  But,  as  he  con- 
tinued to  act  as  Session-Clerk  down  to  at  least 
8th  January,  179o  (letter  in  Burns  Chronicle, 
1895,  p.  138),  Lockhart  must  have  been  in 
some  sort  misinformed.  Nevertheless,  Wilson 
did  remove  to  Glasgow,  where  he  became 
schoolmaster  and  Session-Clerk  of  the  Gorbals 
parish.     He  died  loth  January,  1839. 

Hately  Waddell,  on  the  authority  of  a  "  re- 
spected resident  "  in  Tarbolton,  brought  for- 
ward a  prototype  of  Death  :  one  "  Hugh  Reid 
of  the  Langlands,"  a  "lang  ghaist-like  body," 
with  whom  Burns  —  't  is  the  Tarbolton  tra- 
dition —  forgathered,  as  here  described,  near 
"  Willie's  mill." 


DEATH   AND   DR.    HORNBOOK 


57 


Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 
And  some  great  lies  were  never  penu'd: 
Ev'n  ministers,  they  hae  been  keud. 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  whid  at  times  to  vend. 

And  nail 't  wi'  Scripture. 


But  this  that  I  am  gaun  to  tell, 

Which  lately  on  a  night  befel. 

Is  just  as  true  's  the  Deil  's  in  hell 

Or  Dublin  city: 
That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel 

'S  a  muckle  pity  ! 


The  clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 

I  was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty: 

I  stacher'd  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay 

To  free  the  ditches; 
An'  hillocks,  stanes,  an'  bushes,  kend  ay 

Frae  ghaists  an'  witches. 


The  rising  moon  began  to  glowr 
The  distant  Cumnock  Hills  out-owre: 
To  count  her  horns,  wi'  a'  ray  pow'r 

I  set  mysel; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I  cou'd  na  tell. 


I  was  come  round  about  the  hill. 
And  todlin  down  on  Willie's  mill, 
Setting  my  staff  wi'  a'  my  skill 

To  keep  me  sicker; 
Tho'  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

I  took  a  bicker. 


I  there  wi'  Something  does  forgather, 

That  pat  me  in  an  eerie  s wither; 

An  awfu'  scythe,  out-owre  ae  shouther, 

Clear-dangling,  hang; 
A  three-tae'd  leister  on  the  ither 

Lay,  large  an'  lang. 


Its  stature  seem'd  lang  Scotch  ells  twa; 
The  queerest  shape  that  e'er  I  saw. 
For  fient  a  wame  it  had  ava; 

And  then  its  shanks, 


They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp  an'  sma* 
As  cheeks  o'  branks. 


"  Guid-een,"     quo'    I;  "Friend!    hae   ye 

been  mawiu. 
When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin  ?  " 
It  seem'd  to  mak  a  kind  o'  stan'. 

But  naething  spak. 
At   length,   says  I :    "  Friend  !   whare   ye 


gaim 


Will  ye  go  back  ? ' 

IX 


It  spak  right  howe  :  "  My  name  is  Death, 
But   be   na'    fley'd."      Quoth    I:    «  Guid 

faith. 
Ye  're  may  be  come  to  stap  my  breath; 

But  tent  me,  billie: 
I  red  ye  weel,  take  care  o'  skaith. 

See,  there  's  a  gully  ! " 


"  Gudeman,"  quo'  he,  "  put  up  your  whittle, 
I  'm  no  design'd  to  try  its  mettle; 
But  if  I  did,  I  wad  be  kittle 

To  be  mislear'd: 
I  wad  na  mind  it,  no  that  spittle 

Out-owre  my  beard." 

XI 

"  Weel,  weel !  "  says  I,  "  a  bargain  be  't; 
Come,    gie  's   your   hand,    an'    say    we  're 

gree't; 
We  '11  ease  our  shanks,  an'  tak  a  seat: 

Come,  gie  's  your  news: 
This  while  ye  hae  been  monie  a  gate, 

At  monie  a  house." 


"  Ay,  ay  !  "  quo'  he,  an'  shook  his  head, 
"  It  's  e'en  a  lang,  lang  time  indeed 
Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread 

An'  choke  the  breath: 
Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread. 

An'  sae  maun  Death. 

XIII 

"  Sax  thousand  years  are  near-hand  fled 

Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred. 

An'  monie  a  scheme  in  vain  's  been  laid 

To  stap  or  scar  me ; 
Till  ane  Hornbook  's  ta'en  up  the  trade, 

And  faith  !  he  '11  waur  me. 


S8         ADDITIONS    IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF    1787 


XIV 

"  Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i'  the  clachan  ? 
Deil  mak  his  king's-hood  in  a  spleuchan  !  — 
He  's  grown  sae  weel  acquaint  wi'  Buchan 

And  ither  chaps, 
The  weans  hand  out  their  fingers  laughin, 

An'  pouk  my  hips. 

XV 

«*  See,  here  's  a  scythe,  an'  there  's  a  dart, 
They  hae  pierc'd  monie  a  gallant  heart; 
But  Doctor  Hornbook  wi'  his  art 

An'  cursed  skill, 
Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a  fart, 

Damn'd  haet  they  '11  kill ! 

XVI 

"  'T  was  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gane, 

I  threw  a  noble  throw  at  ane ; 

Wi'  less,  I  'm  sure,  I  've  hundreds  slain; 

But  Deil-ma-care  ! 
It  just  played  dirl  on  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 

XVII 

"  Hornbook  was  by  wi'  ready  art, 
An'  had  sae  fortify'd  the  part. 
That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart, 

It  was  sae  blunt, 
Fient  haet  o't  wad  hae  pierc'd  the  heart 

Of  a  kail-runt. 


"  I  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a  fury, 
I  near-hand  cowpit  wi'  my  hurry. 
But  yet  the  bauld  Apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock: 
I  might  as  weel  hae  try'd  a  quarry 

O'  hard  whin-rock. 


"  Ev'n  them  he  canna  get  attended, 
Altho'  their  face  he  ne'er  had  kend  it, 
Just  shit  in  a  kail-blade  an'  send  it, 

As  soon  's  he  smells  't, 
Baith  their  disease  and  what  will  mend  it. 

At  once  he  tells  't. 

XX 

"  And  then  a'  doctor's  saws  and  whittles 
Of  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  an'  mettles, 
A'  kinds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  and  bottles. 
He  's  sure  to  hae : 


Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 
As  A  B  C. 


"  Calces  o'  fossils,  earth,  and  trees; 
True  sal-marinum  o'  the  seas; 
The  farina  of  beans  an'  pease. 

He  has  't  in  plenty; 
Aqua-fontis,  what  you  please, 

He  can  content  ye. 


"  Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 

Urinus  spiritus  of  capons ; 

Or  mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings 

Distill'd  per  sej 
Sal-alkali  o'  midge-tail-clippings. 

And  monie  mae." 


"  Waes  me  for  Johnie  Ged's  Hole  now," 
Quoth  I,  "  if  that  thae  news  be  true  ! 
His  braw  calf-ward  whare  gowans  grew 

Sae  white  and  bonie, 
Nae  doubt  they  '11  rive  it  wi'  the  plew: 

They  '11  ruin  Johnie  !  " 

XXIV 

The  creature  grain'd  an  eldritch  laugh. 
And  says:  "  Ye  nedna  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Kirkyards  will  soon  be  till'd  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear: 
They  '11  a'  be  trench'd  wi  monie  a  sheugh 

In  twa-three  year. 


"  Whare  I  kill'd  ane,  a  fair  strae  death 
By  loss  o'  blood  or  want  o'  breath, 
This  night  I  'm  free  to  tak  my  aith, 

That  Hornbrook's  skill 
Has  clad  a  score  i'  their  last  claith 

By  drap  an'  pill. 

XXVI 

"  An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 

Whase  wife's  twa  nieves  were  scarce  weel« 

bred. 
Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head. 

When  it  was  sair; 
The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed, 

But  ne'er  spak  mair. 

XXVII 

"  A  countra  laird  had  taen  the  batts, 
Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts, 


THE   BRIGS   OF   AYR 


59 


His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets, 

An'  pays  him  well: 

The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer-pets, 
Was  laird  himsel. 

XXVIII 

"  A  bonie  lass  —  ye  kend  her  name  — 
Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hov'd  her  wame; 
She  trusts  hersel,  to  hide  the  shame. 

In  Hornbook's  care; 
Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame 

To  hide  it  there. 

XXIX 

"That's  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornbook's  way; 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day, 
Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  an'  slay. 

An 's  weel  paid  for  't; 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lawfu'  prey 

Wi'  his  damn'd  dirt: 

XXX 

"  But,  hark  !  I  '11  tell  you  of  a  plot, 
Tho'  dinna  ye  be  speakin  o't: 
I  '11  nail  the  self-conceited  sot. 

As  dead  's  a  herrin; 
Niest  time  we  meet,  I  '11  wad  a  groat, 

He  gets  his  fairin  ! " 

XXXI 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell. 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal, 

Which  raised  us  baith: 
I  took  the  way  that  pleas'd  mysel, 

And  sae  did  Death. 


THE   BRIGS    OF   AYR 
A  POEM 

IXSCRIBED    TO   JOHN    BALLANTINE,    ESQ., 
AYR 

John  Ballantine  —  co  whom  Bums  dedicated 
this  poem,  and  who  was  one  of  his  warmest 
friends  —  was  eldest  son  of  Bailie  William 
Ballantine,  banker  and  merchant  in  Ayr.  and 
Elizabeth  Bowman ;  born  22d  July,  1743  ;  suc- 
ceeded to  his  father's  business ;  was  a  most 
active  citizen,  and  a  prime  mover  in  the  pro- 
ject for  a  new  bridge  ;  was  elected  provost  of 
the  burgh  in  1787  ;  and  died  15th  July,  1812. 

In  a  letter  to  Robert  Aiken,  7th  October, 
1786,  Burns,  after  narrating  the  failure  of  his 


attempts  to  persuade  Wilson  to  publish  a  sec- 
ond edition,  states  that  one  of  his  chief  re- 
grets was  that  he  was  thus  deprived  of  an 
opportunity  for  showing  his  gratitude  to  Bal- 
lantine by  publishing  The  Brigs  of  Ayr.  The 
New  Bridge,  designed  by  Robert  Adam  of 
London,  the  most  famous  of  the  four  brothers, 
was  erected  1785-88.  The  boast  of  the  '"  Auld 
Brig"  that  it  would  "be  a  brig"  when  its 
neighbour  was  a  ''  shapeless  cairn  "  was  justi- 
fied in  1877,  when  the  New  Bridge  was  so  in- 
jured by  floods  that  it  had  to  be  practically 
rebuilt  at  a  cost  of  £15,000,  additional  repairs 
being  found  necessary  in  1881. 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr,  like  To  Robert  Graham  of 
Fintry  (p.  85),  is  set  forth  in  the  heroic  coup- 
let. The  technical  inspiration  is  unmistakably 
English  in  both  ;  and,  accordingly,  the  verse 
in  both  is  handled  with  a  certain  awkwardness, 
while  the  effect  is  often  rough,  and  even 
ragged.  This  is  the  more  surprising,  as  the 
couplet  had  a  past  of  its  own  in  Scottish  po- 
etry. To  say  nothing  of  late  and  early  chaps 
and  tracts,  it  is  the  rhythmus  of  Blind  Harry's 
Wallace  (c.  1460) ;  of  The  Three  Priests  of 
Peebles  (c.  1500)  ;  of  Gavin  Douglas's  Eneados 
(1513)  ;  of  that  masterly  and  brilliant  piece 
of  comic  narrative,  generally  (and,  no  doubt, 
rightly)  ascribed  to  Dunbar,  The  Freirs  of 
Berwick  ;  of  Ramsay's  Gentle  Shepherd  ;  and  of 
Fergusson's  Drink  and  Kirkyard  Eclogues,  of 
which  last,  and  of  the  same  poet's  Plainstanes 
and  Causey,  the  present  piece  is  strongly  remi- 
niscent. It  was  probably  composed  between 
July  and  October,  1786. 

The    simple    Bard,    rough    at   the   rustic 

plough. 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  ev'ry  bough 
(The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 
Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green 

thorn  bush; 
The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breast 

shrill. 
Or  deep-ton'd  plovers  grey,  wild- whistling 

o'er  the  hill): 
Shall  he  —  nurst  in  the  peasant's  lowly  shed, 
To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred. 
By  early  poverty  to  hardship  steel'd, 
And  train'd  to  arms  in  stern  misfortune's 

field  — 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes, 
The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 
Or  labour  hard  the  panegyric  close, 
With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  prose  ? 
No  !   though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely 

sings, 
And  throws  his  hand   uncouthly  o'er  the 

strings, 


6o         ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF    1787 


He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  bard, 
Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great,  his  dear  re- 
ward. 
Still,  if  some  patron's  gen'rous  care  he  trace, 
Skill'd  in  the  secret  to  bestow  with  grace; 
When    Ballantine    befriends    his    humble 

name, 
And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  fame, 
With  heartfelt  throes  his  grateful   bosom 

swells: 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 

'T  was  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  win- 
ter hap, 

And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won 
crap; 

Potatoe-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 

O'  coming  winter's  biting,  frosty  breath; 

The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  summer 
toils  — 

Unnumber'd  buds'  an'  flowers'  delicious 
spoils, 

Seal'd  uj)  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen 
piles  — 

Are  doom'd  by  man,  that  tyrant  o'er  the 
weak, 

The  death  o'  devils  smoor'd  wi'  brimstone 
reek: 

The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  ev'ry 
side, 

The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide; 

The  feather'd  field-mates,  bound  by  Na- 
ture's tie. 

Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage 
lie: 

(What  warm,  poetic  heart  but  inly  bleeds, 

And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless 
deeds  !) 

Nae  mair  the  flower  in  field  or  meadow 
springs; 

Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings. 

Except  perhaps  the  robin's  whistling  glee, 

Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half-lang 
tree ; 

The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days; 

Mild,  calm,  serene,  widespreads  the  noon- 
tide blaze, 

While  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton 
in  the  rays. 

'T  was  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  Bard, 
Unknown      and     poor  —  simplicity's     re- 
ward !  — 
Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr, 
By  whim  inspir'd,  or  haply  prest  wi'  care, 


He   left   his  bed,   and   took  his  wayward 

route. 
And  down  by  Simpson's  wheel'd  the  left 

about 
(Whether  impell'd  by  all-directing  Fate, 
To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate; 
Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high. 
He  wander'd  forth,  he  knew  not  where  nor 

why) : 
The  drowsy  Dungeon-Clock  had  number'd 

two, 
And  Wallace   Tower  had  sworn  the  fact 

was  true; 
The  tide-swoln  Firth,  with  sullen-sounding 

roar. 
Through  the  still  night  dash'd  hoarse  along 

the  shore; 
All   else   was    hush'd  as  Nature's    closed 

e'e; 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tower  and 

tree; 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 
Crept,  gently-crusting,  o'er  the  glittering 

stream. 

When,  lo  !  on  either  hand  the  list'ning 

Bard, 
The   clanging  sugh  of   whistling  wings  is 

heard ; 
Two  dusky  forms  dart  thro'  the  midnight 

air, 
Swift   as  the  gos   drives  on  the  wheeling 

hare; 
Ane  on  th'  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  up- 

rears. 
The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  rising  piers: 
Our  warlock  rhymer  instantly  descried 
The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs   of   Ayr 

preside. 
(That  bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 
And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp'ritual  folk; 
Fays,  spunkies,  kelpies,  a',  they  can  explain 

them. 
And  ev'n  the  vera  deils  they  brawly  ken 

them). 
Auld  Brig  appear'd  of  ancient  Pictish  race, 
The  vera  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face; 
He   seem'd   as  he  wi'    Time  had  warstl'd 

lang. 
Yet,  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 
New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat, 
That  he,  at  Lon'on,  frae  ane  Adams  got; 
In  's  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth  's  a 

bead, 
Wi'  virls  an'  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 


I 


THE   BRIGS   OF   AYR 


6i 


The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxious 

search, 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  ev'ry  arch. 
It   chanc'd  his  new-come  neebor  took  bis 

e'e, 
And  e'en  a  vex'd  and  angry  heart  had  be  ! 
Wi'  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien, 
He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guid- 

een:  — 

AULD   BRIG 

"  I   doubt   na,  frien',  ye  '11  think  ye  're 

nae  sheep  shank, 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  owre  frae  bank  to 

bank  ! 
But  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  auld  as  me  — 
Tho'  faith,  that  date,  I  doubt,  ye  '11  never 

see  — 
There  '11  be,  if  that  day  come,  I  '11  wad  a 

boddle, 
Some  fewer  whigmeleeries  in  your  noddle." 

NEW   BRIG 

"  Auld  Vandal !  ye  but  show  your  little 

mense. 
Just  much  about  it  wi'  your  scanty  sense : 
Will   your   poor,  narrow  foot-path   of   a 

street, 
Where   twa  wheel-barrows   tremble  when 

they  meet. 
Your   rnin'd,   formless   bulk  o'  stane    an' 

lime. 
Compare  wi'  bonie  brigs  o'  modern  time  ? 
There  's  men  of  taste  would  tak  the  Ducat 

stream, 
Tho'   they  should   cast  the  vera  sark  and 

swim, 
E'er  they  would   grate  their   feelings  wi' 

the  view 
0'  sic  an  ugly,  Gothic  hulk  as  you." 

AULD   BRIG 

"  Conceited  gowk  !  puff 'd  up  wi'  windy 

pride  ! 
This  monie  a  year  I  've  stood  the  flood  an' 

tide; 
And  tho'  wi'  crazy  eild  I  'm  sair  forfairn, 
I  '11  be  a  brig  when  ye  're  a  shapeless  cairn ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter. 
But  twa-three  winters  Avill  inform  ye  better. 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a'-day  rains 
Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains; 
When   from    the   hills  where  springs   the 

brawling  Coil, 
Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil, 


Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland 

course, 
Or  haunted  Garpal  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Arous'd    by  blustering  winds  an'  spotting 

thowes, 
In   monie    a   torrent  down   the  snaw-broo 

rowes ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring 

speat. 
Sweeps  dams,  an'  mills,  an'  brigs,  a'  to  the 

gate; 
And  from  Glenbuck  down  to  the  Ratten- 

Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd,  tumbling 

sea  — 
Then  down  ye  '11  hurl  (deil  nor  ye  never 

rise!). 
And   dash   the   gumlie    jaups    up   to   the 

pouring  skies  ! 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost, 
That  Architecture's  noble  art  is  lost  !  " 

NEW    BRIG 

"  Fine  architecture,  tro\vth,  I  needs  must 
say 't  o't, 

The  Lord  be  thankit  that  we  've  tint  the 
gate  o't ! 

Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 

Hanging  with  threat'ning  jut,  like  preci- 
pices; 

O'er  -  arching,  mouldy,  gloom  -  inspiring 
coves. 

Supporting  roofs  fantastic  —  stony  groves; 

Windows  and  doors  in  nameless  sculptures 
drest, 

With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest; 

Forms  like  some  bedlam  statuary's  dream, 

The  craz'd  creations  of  misguided  whim; 

Forms  might  be  worshipp'd  on  the  bended 
knee. 

And  still  the  second  dread  Command  be 
free: 

Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air, 
or  sea  ! 

Mansions  that  would  disgrace  the  building 
taste 

Of  any  mason  reptile,  bird  or  beast, 

Fit  onl}-^  for  a  doited  monkish  race. 

Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace, 

Or  cuifs  of  later  times,  wha  held  the 
notion. 

That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  de- 
votion : 

Fancies  that  our  guid  brugh  denies  pro- 
tection, 


62         ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF    1787 


And   soon  may  they   expire,  unblest  with 
resurrection  ! " 

AULD   BRIG 

"  O   ye,  my  dear  -  remember'd,  ancient 

yealings, 
Were   ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded 

feelings  ! 
Ye  worthy  proveses,  an'  monie  a  bailie, 
Wha  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  did  toil 

.ay; 
Ye  dainty  deacons,  an'  ye  douce  conveeners, 
To   whom   our   moderns   are   but   causey- 
cleaners  ; 
Ye  godly  councils,  wha  hae  blest  this  town ; 
Ye  godly  brethren  o'  the  sacred  gown, 
Wha  meekly  gie  your  hurdles  to  the  smit- 

ers; 
And  (what  would  now  be  strange),  ye  godly 

Writers; 
A'  ye  douce  folk  I  've  borne  aboon  the  broo, 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or 

do! 
How    would   your   spirits    groan   in   deep 

vexation 
To  see  each  melancholy  alteration; 
And,  agonising,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base  degen'rate  race  ! 
Nae  langer  rev'rend  men,  their  country's 

glory,  _ 
In  plain   braid   Scots  hold  forth  a  plain, 

braid  story; 
Nae  langer  thrifty  citizens,  an'  douce, 
Meet  owre  a  pint  or  in  the  council-house: 
But    staumrel,    corky  -  headed,    graceless 

gentry. 
The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country; 
Men  three-parts  made  by  tailors  and  by 

barbers, 
Wha    waste    your    weel-hain'd    gear    on 

damn'd  New  Brigs  and  harbours  !  " 

NEW   BRIG 

"  Now  hand  you  there  !  for  faith  ye  've 

said  enough, 
And   muckle   mair   than   ye   can   mak   to 

through. 
As  for  your  priesthood,  I  shall  say  but  little, 
Corbies  and  clergy  are  a  shot  right  kittle: 
But,  under  favour  o'  your  langer  beard, 
Abuse  o'  magistrates  might  weel  be  spar'd; 
To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warld  squad, 
I  must  needs  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 
In  Ayr,  wag-wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a  handle 
To  mouth  'a  Citizen,'  a  term  o'  scandal; 


Nae  mair  the   council  waddles   down  the 

street, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit; 
Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin  owre  hops  an' 

raisins. 
Or   gather'd   lib'ral   views   in   bonds    and 

seisins; 
If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a  random  tramp, 
Had  shor'd  them  with  a  glimmer  of  his 

lamp. 
And  would  to  common-sense  for  once  be- 

tray'd  them, 
Plain,  dull  stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid 

them." 

What  farther  clish-ma-claver  might  been 

said. 
What  bloody  wars,  if  Sprites  had  blood  to 

shed, 
No  man  can  tell ;  but,  all  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  train  appear'd  in  order  bright: 
Adown  the  glittering  stream  they   featly 

dauc'd; 
Bright  to  the   moon  their  various  dresses 

glanc'd; 
They  footed  o'er  the  wat'ry  glass  so  neat. 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their 

feet; 
While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung. 
And   soul-ennobling   Bards   heroic    ditties 

sung. 

O,  had  M'Lauchlan,  thairm  -  inspiring 
sage, 

Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  en- 
gage, 

When  thro'  his  dear  strathspeys  they  bore 
with  Highland  rage; 

Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia's  melting 
airs. 

The  lover's  raptured  joys  or  bleeding  cares; 

How  would  his  Highland  lug  been  nobler 
fir'd, 

And  ev'n  his  matchless  hand  with  finer 
touch  inspir'd  ! 

No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  ap- 
pear'd, 

But  all  the  soul  of  Music's  self  was  heard; 

Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part. 

While  simple  melody  pour'd  moving  on  the 
heart. 

The  Genius  of  the  Stream  in  front  ap- 
pears, 
A  venerable  chief  advanc'd  in  years; 


THE  ORDINATION 


63 


His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown'd, 
His  manly  leg  with  garter-tangle  bound. 
Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 
Sweet  Female  Beauty  hand  in  hand  with 

Spring; 
Then,    crown'd    with    flow'i'y    hay,    came 

Rural  Joy, 
And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye ; 
All-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn, 
Led  yellow  Autumn  wreath'd  with  nodding 

corn ; 
Then    Winter's    time-bleach'd    locks    did 

hoary  show, 
By  Hospitality,  with  cloudless  brow. 
Next   foUow'd   Courage,   with  his  martial 

stride, 
From  where  the  Feal  wild-woody  coverts 

hide; 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 
A  female  form,  came  from  the  towers  of 

Stair; 
Learning   and   Worth   in   equal  measures 

trode 
From    simple    Catrine,    their    long-lov'd 

abode ; 
Last,  white-rob'd  Peace,   crown'd  with   a 

hazel  wreath. 
To  rustic  Agricidture  did  bequeath 
The  broken,  iron  instruments  of  death: 
At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their 

kindling  wrath. 


THE  ORDINATION 

For  sense,  they  little  owe  to  frugal  Heav'n  : 
To  please  the  mob  they  hide  the  little  giv'u. 

In  a  letter  to  Richmond  (17th  February, 
1786)  Burns  mentions  that  he  had  composed 
The  Ordination,  and  describes  it  as  "  a  poem 
on  Mr.  M'Kinlay's  being  called  to  Kilmar- 
nock." Probably  he  intended  to  publish  it 
in  the  '86  Edition,  which  he  was  then  con- 
templating, and  had  called  it  The  Ordination 
to  that  end ;  nevertheless,  as  appears  from  the 
letter,  not  only  was  it  written  before  the  ordi- 
nation, which  took  place  6th  April,  but  also  it 
was  not  even  written  in  view  thereof  —  it  only 
celebrated  the  presentation.  Moreover,  an 
early  copy  —  MS. — in  the  possession  of  Lord 
Rosebery,  has  merely  this  heading,  "-4  Scotch 
Poem,  by  Rab  Rhymer." 

James  Mackinlay,  born  at  Douglas,  Lanark- 
shire, in  17-56,  was  first  presented  to  the  second 
charge  of  the  Laigh  Kirk,  Kilmarnock,  in  the 
August  of  1785.     He  declined  the  presentation 


on  account  of  certain  conditions  attached  to  it. 
Presentation  to  another  was  made  out  on  l-oth 
November,  but  the  messenger  to  the  Presby- 
tery of  Irvine  was  despoiled  of  the  warrant  by 
certain  parishioners.  Thereupon  a  new  presen- 
tation was  made  out  for  Mackinlay,  who  was 
ordained  on  6th  April  following ;  was  translated 
to  the  first  charge,  on  a  petition  of  the  parish- 
ioners, 31st  January,  1809  ;  was  made  D.  D., 
Aberdeen,  1810  ;  died  10th  February,  1841.  A 
volume  of  his  Sermons  was  published  posthu- 
mously, with  a  Life  by  his  son,  Rev.  James 
Mackinlay.  Like  Russell,  he  had  a  rousing 
voice  ;  but  his  oratory  was  more  persuasive  and 
less  menacing  than  RusselFs.  In  a  note  to 
Tarn  Samsons  Elegy  Burns  describes  him  "as 
a  great  favourite  of  the  million."  In  The  Kirk's 
Alarm  he  is  addressed  as  "Simper  James." 
His  more  than  partiality  for  the  ''  fair  Killie 
dames "  drew  on  him  a  presbyterial  rebuke 
some  years  afterwards. 

In  all  probability  the  satire  was  composed 
immediately  after  the  second  presentation. 


Kilmarnock  wabsters,  fidge  an'  claw. 

An'  pour  your  creeshie  nations; 
An'  ye  wha  leather  rax  an'  draw, 

Of  a'  denominations; 
Swith  !  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  an'  a', 

An'  there  tak  up  your  stations; 
Then  aff  to  Begbie's  in  a  raw, 

An'  pour  divine  libations 

For  joy  this  day. 


Curst  Common-sense,  that  imp  o'  heU, 

Cam  in  wi'  Maggie  Lauder  : 
But  Oliphant  aft  made  her  yell, 

An'  Russell  sair  misca'd  her: 
This  day  Mackinlay  taks  the  flail. 

An'  he  's  the  boy  will  bland  her ! 
He  '11  clap  a  shangan  on  her  tail, 

An'  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her 
Wi'  dirt  this  day. 

Ill 

Mak  haste  an'  turn  King  David  owre. 

An'  lilt  wi'  holy  clangor; 
O'  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

An'  skirl  up  the  Bangor  : 
This  day  the  Kirk  kicks  up  a  stoure: 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her. 
For  Heresy  is  in  her  pow'r. 

And  gloriously  she  '11  whang  her 
Wi'  pith  this  day. 


64         ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF   1787 


Com£,  let  a  proper  text  be  read, 

An'  touch  it  aff  wi'  vigour, 
How  graceless  Ham  leugh  at  his  dad, 

Which  made  Caudan  a  nigger; 
Or  Phineas  drove  the  murdering  blade 

Wi'  whore-abhorring  rigour; 
Or  Zipporah,  the  scauldin  jad, 

Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

I'  til'  inn  that  day. 


There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  Creed, 

And  bind  him  down  wi'  caution,  — 
That  stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 

He  taks  but  for  the  fashion  — 
And  gie  him  o'er  the  flock  to  feed, 

And  punish  each  transgression; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin: 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

VI 

Now  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail, 

An'  toss  thy  horns  fu'  canty; 
Nae  mair  thou  'It  rowte  out-owre  the  dale. 

Because  thy  pasture  's  scanty; 
For  lapfu's  large  o'  gospel  kail 

Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty. 
An'  runts  o'  grace,  the  pick  an'  wale, 

No  gien  by  way  o'  dainty, 
But  ilka  day. 

VII 

Nae  mair  by  Babel's  streams  we  '11  weep 

To  think  upon  our  Zion; 
And  hing  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin. 
Come,  screw  the  pegs  wi'  tunefu'  cheep, 

And  o'er  the  thairms  be  tryin; 
O,  rare  !  to  see  our  elbucks  wheep, 

And  a'  like  lamb-tails  flyin 

Fu'  fast  this  day  ! 

VIII 

Lang,  Patronage,  wi'  rod  o'  aim, 

Has  shor'd  the  Kirk's  undoin; 
As  lately  Fenwick,  sair  forfairn. 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin: 
Our  patron,  honest  man  !  Glencairn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin; 
An'  like  a  godly,  elect  bairn. 

He  's  waled  us  out  a  true  ane, 

And  sound  this  day. 


Now,  Robertson,  harangue  nae  mair. 

But  steek  your  gab  for  ever; 
Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  Ayr, 

For  there  they  '11  think  you  clever; 
Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear. 

Ye  may  commence  a  shaver; 
Or  to  the  Netherton  repair. 

An'  turn  a  carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand  this  day. 


Mu'trie  and  you  were  just  a  match. 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones: 
Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  watchj 

Just  like  a  winkin  baudrons. 
And  ay  he  catch'd  the  tither  wretch, 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons; 
But  now  his  Honor  maun  detach, 

Wi'  a'  his  brimstone  squadrons. 
Fast,  fast  this  day. 

XI 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy's  faes 

She  's  swingein  thro'  the  city  ! 
Hark,  how  the  nine-tailed  cat  she  plays  ! 

I  vow  it's  unco  pretty; 
There,  Learning,  with  his  Greekish  face, 

Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty; 
And  Common-Sense  is  gaun,  she  says, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie 

Her  plaint  this  day. 


But  there  's  Morality  himsel. 

Embracing  all  opinions; 
Hear,  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell 

Between  his  twa  companions  ! 
See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  an'  fell, 

As  ane  were  peelin  onions  ! 
Now  there,  they  're  packed  aff  to  hell, 

An'  banish'd  our  dominions. 

Henceforth  this  day. 


O  happy  day  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter  ! 
Morality's  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quarter: 
Mackinlay,  Russell,  are  the  boys 

That  Heresy  can  torture; 
They  '11  gie  her  on  a  rape  a  hoyse. 

And  cowe  her  measure  shorter 

By  th'  head  some  day. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   UNCO   GUID 


65 


Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in, 

And  here  's  —  for  a  conclusion  — 
To  ev'ry  New  Light  mother's  son, 

From  this  time  forth,  confusion  ! 
If  mair  they  (leave  us  wi'  theii-  din 

Or  patronage  intrusion. 
We  '11  light  a  spunk,  and  ev'ry  skin 

We  '11  run  them  aff  in  fusion. 

Like  oil  some  day. 


THE    CALF 

To  the  Rev.  James  Steven,  on  his  text,  Malachi  iv.  2  : 
"  And  ye  shall  go  forth,  and  grow  up  as  calves  of  the 
staU." 

"A  nearly  extemporaneous  production,  on  a 
wager  with  Mr.  Hamilton  that  I  would  not  pro- 
duce a  poem  on  the  subject  in  a  given  time  :" 
—  R.  B.,  Letter  to  Robert  Mair,  8th  September, 
1786.  It  was  written  on  hiuaday,  3d  Septem- 
ber, after  listening  to  a  sermon  by  the  Rev. 
James  Steven.  As  originally  composed  and 
read  to  Gavin  Hamilton  and  Dr.  Mackenzie,  it 
consisted  of  four  stanzas  only  ;  but  on  the  Sun- 
day evening  at  eight  o'clock  Burns  sent  a  copy 
to  Dr.  Mackenzie  with  two  more  —  the  fourth 
and  the  sixth.  It  was  printed  in  1 787  (presum- 
ably before  its  appearance  in  the  Edinburgh 
Edition),  with  some  other  verses,  in  a  tract 
called  The  Calf ;  TJie  Unco  Calfs  Answer; 
Virtue  to  a  Mountain  Bard ;  and  the  DeiVs 
Answer  to  his  vera  worthy  Frien  Robert  Burns. 
An  explanation  was  added  that  The  Calf  had 
been  sent  to  The  Glasgow  Advertiser,  but  de- 
clined. The  same  year  appeared  Burns''  Calf 
turned  a  Bull ;  or  Some  Remarks  on  his  mean 

and   unprecedented   attack  on  Mr.  S when 

preaching  from  Malachi  iv.  2. 

James  Steven,  a  native  of  Kilmarnock,  was 
licensed  to  preach  28th  June,  1786;  acted  for 
some  time  as  assistant  to  Robert  Dow,  min- 
ister of  Ardrossan ;  was  ordained  minister  of 
Crown  Court  Chapel,  London,  1st  November, 
1787;  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Lon- 
don Missionary  Society ;  was  admitted  min- 
ister of  Kilwinning,  28th  March,  1803 ;  and 
died  of  apoplexy  1.5th  February,  1824.  Wil- 
liam Burns,  Robert's  younger  brother,  in  a 
letter  of  20th  March,  1700,  thus  chronicles  a 
visit  to  Steven's  church  :  "  We  were  at  Covent 
Garden  Chapel  this  forenoon  to  hear  the  Calf 
preach  ;  he  is  grown  very  fat,  and  is  as  boister- 
ous as  ever." 


Right,  sir  !  your  text  I  '11  prove  it  true. 

Tho'  heretics  may  laugh; 
For  instance,  there  's  yoursel  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  calf. 


And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind 

As  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  na,  sir,  but  then  we  '11  find 

You  're  still  as  great  a  stirk. 

Ill 

But,  if  the  lover's  raptur'd  hour 

Shall  ever  be  your  lot, 
Forbid  it,  every  heavenly  Power, 

You  e'er  should  be  a  stot  J 


Tho',  when  some  kind  connubial  dear 

Your  but-an'-ben  adorns. 
The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 

A  noble  head  of  horns. 


And,  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 
To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte. 

Few  men  o'  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 
To  rank  amons  the  nowte. 


And  when  ye  're  number'd  wi'  the  dead 

Below  a  grassy  hillock. 
With  justice  they  may  mark  your  head:- 

"  Here  lies  a  famous  bullock .'  " 


ADDRESS    TO    THE   UNCO   GUID 


OR   THE   RIGIDLY    RIGHTEOUS 

My  Son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule. 

An'  lump  them  ay  thegither  : 
The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool. 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither  ; 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 

May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff  in ; 
So  ne'er  a  fellow-creature  slight 

For  random  fits  o'  ilaffin. 

Solomon  (Eccles.  vii.  IG) 


O  YE,  wha  are  sae  gnid  yoursel, 
Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 


66         ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION   OF    1787 


Ye  've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neebours'  fauts  and  folly; 

Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gauu  mill, 
Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water; 

The  heapet  happer  's  ebbing  still, 
An'  still  the  clap  plays  clatter  ! 


Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals: 
I  for  their  thouglitless,  careless  sakes 

Would  here  propone  defences  — 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ill 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared. 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer; 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  makes  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave; 

That  purity  ye  pride  in; 
And  (what 's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hidiu. 


Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop. 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse. 

That  still  eternal  gallop  ! 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail. 

It  makes  an  unco  lee-way. 


See  Social-life  and  Glee  sit  down 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Till,  quite  transmugrify'd,  they  're  grown 

Debauchery  and  Drinking: 
O,  would  they  stay  to  calculate, 

Th'  eternal  consequences, 
Or  —  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state  — 

Damnation  of  expenses  ! 


Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames. 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces. 
Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names. 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases: 
A  dear-lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treach'rous  inclination  — 


But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug. 
Ye  're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 


Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human: 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

VIII 

Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us: 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone. 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias: 
Then  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted. 


TAM    SAMSON'S    ELEGY 

An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 

Pope. 

"  When  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out 
last  muir-fowl  season,  he  supposed  it  was  to  be, 
in  Ossian's  phrase,  '  the  last  of  his  fields,'  and 
expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  die  and  be  buried 
in  the  muirs.  On  this  hint  the  author  com- 
posed his  Elegy  and  Epitaph  "  (R.  B.).  Sam- 
son —  a  nursery-gardener  and  seedsman  in  Kil- 
marnock, and  an  ardent  sportsman  —  died  12th 
December,  1795,  in  his  seventy  -  third  year. 
The  Epitaph  is  inscribed  on  his  tombstone  in 
the  yard  of  the  Laig-h  Kirk,  adjoining-  those  of 
the  two  ministers,  Mackinlay  and  Robertson, 
mentioned  in  the  first  stanza.  The  piece  is 
modelled  —  even  to  the  use  of  certain  lines  — 
on  Sempill's  Piper  of  Kilbarchan.  See  ante, 
p.  12,  Prefatory  Note  to  Address  to  the  Deil. 
On  18th  November,  1786,  shortly  before  setting 
out  for  Edinburgli,  Burns  wrote  to  his  friend 
Robert  Muir :  "  Inclosed  you  have  Tarn  Sani' 
son,  as  I  intend  to  print  him." 


Has  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  Deil  ? 
Or  great  Mackinlay  thrawn  his  heel  ? 
Or  Robertson  again  grown  weel 

To  preach  an'  read  ? 


TAM   SAMSON'S   ELEGY 


67 


"  Na',  waur  than  a'  !  "  cries  ilka  chiel, 

"  Tarn  Samson  's  dead  !  " 


j     Kilmarnock  lang  may  grunt  an'  grane, 
An'  sigh,  an'  sab,  an'  greet  her  lane, 
An'    cleed    her    bairns  —  man,    wife    an' 
wean  — 

In  mourning  weed ; 
To  Death  she  's  dearly  pay'd  the  kain: 
Tam  Samson 's  dead ! 

ui 

The  Brethren  o'  the  mj'stic  level 
May  hing  their  head  in  woefu'  bevel, 
While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 

Like  onie  bead; 
Death  's  gien  the  Lodge  an  unco  devel: 

Tam  Samson 's  dead  ! 


When  winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 
And  binds  the  mire  like  a  rock; 
When  to  the  loughs  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi'  gleesome  speed, 
Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ?  — 

Tam  Samson 's  dead  ! 


He  was  the  king  of  a'  the  core, 
To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore, 
Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 

In  time  o'  need; 
But  now  he  lags  on  Death's  hog-score: 

Tam  Samson  's  dead  ! 

VI 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 
And  trouts  bedropp'd  wi'  crimson  hail, 
And  eels  weel-kend  for  souple  tail. 

And  geds  for  greed. 
Since,  dark  in  Death's  flsh-creel,  we  wail 

Tam  Samson  dead ! 


Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks  a'; 

Ye  cootie  moorcocks,  crousely  craw; 

Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu'  braw 

Withouten  dread; 
Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa: 

Tam  Samson  's  dead  ! 


That  wofu'  morn  be  ever  mourn'd, 
Saw  him  in  shootin  graith  adorn'd. 


While  pointers  round  impatient  burn'd, 
Frae  couples  free'd ; 

But  och  !  he  gaed  and  ne'er  return'd: 
Tam  Samson 's  dead ! 


In  vain  aidd-age  his  body  batters, 

In  vain  the  gout  his  ancles  fetters, 

In  vain  the  burns  cam  down  like  waters, 

An  acre  braid  ! 
Now  ev'ry  auld  wife,  greetin,  clatters: 

"  Tam  Samson 's  dead!  " 


Owre  monie  a  weary  hag  he  limpit. 
An'  ay  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit, 
Till  coward  Death  behint  him  jumpit, 

Wi'  deadly  feide; 
Now  he  proclaims  wi'  tout  o'  trumpet: 

"  Tam  Samson  's  dead!  " 


When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 
He  reel'd  his  wonted  bottle-swagger, 
But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 

Wi'  weel-aim'd  heed; 
"  Lord,   five  !  "   he    cry'd,   an'    owre   did 
stagger  — 

"  Tam  Samson  's  dead!  " 


Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourn'd  a  brither; 
Ilk  sportsman-youth  benioan'd  a  father; 
Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 

Marks  out  his  head; 
Whare  Burns  has  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether: 

"  Tam  Samson 's  dead! " 

XIII 

There  low  he  lies  in  lasting  rest; 
Perhaps  upon  his  mould'ring  breast 
Some  spitefu'  moorfowl  bigs  her  nest, 

To  hatch  an'  breed: 
Alas!  nae  mair  he  '11  them  molest: 

"  Tam  Samson  's  dead!  " 

XIV 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave. 
Three  volleys  let  his  memory  crave 

O'  pouther  an'  lead. 
Till  Echo  answers  frae  her  cave: 

"  Tam  Samson  's  dead!  " 


68 


ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF   1787 


XV 

"  Heav'n  rest  his  saul  whare'er  he  be!  " 
Is  th'  wish  o'  monie  niae  than  me: 
He  had  twa  fauts,  or  maybe  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 
Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we: 

"Tam  Samson  's  dead!  " 

THE   EPITAPH 

Tam  Samson's  weel-worn  clay  here  lies: 
Ye  canting  zealots,  spare  him! 

If  honest  worth  in  Heaven  rise. 
Ye  '11  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 

PER   CONTRA 

Go,  Fame,  an'  canter  like  a  filly 
Thro'  a'  the  streets  an  neuks  o'  Killie; 
Tell  ev'ry  social  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin; 
For,  yet  unskaith'd  by  Death's  gleg  gullie, 

Tam  Samson 's  leevin ! 


A   WINTER   NIGHT 

Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pityless  storm  ! 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads  and  unfed  sides, 
Tour  loop'd  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ? 

Shakespeare. 

Probably  the  piece  which  Burns  sent  to 
John  Ballantine  on  20th  of  November,  1786: 
"  Enclosed  you  have  my  first  attempt  in  that 
irregular  kind  of  measure  in  which  many  of 
our  finest  odes  are  wrote.  How  far  I  have 
succeeded  I  don't  know,  but  I  shall  be  happy 
to  have  your  opinion  on  Friday  first  (24th 
November),  when  I  intend  being  in  Ayr."  The 
irregular  strophes  —  imitated  from  Gray,  and 
strikingly  inferior  to  the  introductory  stanzas 
—  are  freely  paraphrased  from  Shakespeare's 
Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind,  in  As  You 
Like  It. 


When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-liv'd  glow'r, 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim-dark'ning  thro'  the  flaky  show'r 

Or  whirling  drift: 


Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked; 
Poor  Labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked; 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up-choked, 

Wild-eddying  swirl. 
Or,  thro'  the  mining  outlet  boeked, 

Down  headlong  hurl : 

III 

List'ning  the  doors  an'  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle. 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  winter  war. 
And  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle 

Beneath  a  scaur. 


Ilk  happing  bird  —  wee,  helpless  thing!  — 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing. 

An'  close  thy  e'e  ? 


Ev'n  you,  on  murd'riug  errands  toil'd, 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exil'd, 
The   blood  - stain'd   roost  and   sheep-cote 
spoil'd 

My  heart  forgets, 
While  pityless  the  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats! 

VI 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 
Dark-muffl'd,  view'd  the  dreary  plain; 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul. 
When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain, 

Slow-solemn,  stole  :  — 


"  Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust! 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost! 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows! 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 
More  hard  unkindness  unrelenting, 
Vengeful  malice,  unrepenting, 
Than  heaven-illumin'd  Man  on  brother  Man 
bestows  ! 
See  stern  Oppression's  iron  grip, 
Or  mad  Ambition's  gory  hand. 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip. 
Woe,  Want,  and  Murder  o'er  a  land  ! 


I 


STANZAS   WRITTEN    IN   PROSPECT   OF   DEATH 


69 


Ev'n  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 
Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale: 
How   pamper 'd   Luxury,  Flatt'ry   by   her 
side, 
The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 
With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear. 
Looks  o'er  proud  Property,  extended  wide; 
And  eyes  the  simple,  rustic  hind, 
Whose  toil  upholds  the  glitt'ringshow  — 
A  creature  of  another  kind. 
Some  coarser  substance,  unrefin'd  — 
Plac'd  for  her  lordly  use,  thus  far,  thus  vile, 
below  ! 
Where,   where   is    Love's   fond,   tender 

throe, 
With  lordly  Honor's  lofty  brow. 
The  pow'rs  you  proudly  own  ? 
Is  there,  beneath  Love's  noble  name, 
Can  harbour,  dark,  the  selfish  aim. 

To  bless  himself  alone  ? 
Mark  Maiden-Innocence  a  prey 

To  love-pretending  snares: 
This  boasted  Honor  turns  away. 
Shunning  soft  Pity's  rising  sway, 
Regardless   of   the    tears   and   unavailing 
pray  rs ! 
Perhaps  this   hour,  in  Misery's   squalid 

nest. 
She  strains  your   infant  to   her   joyless 
breast, 
And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the 
rocking  blast  ! 

VIII 

"  O  ye  !  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down. 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves 

create. 
Think,  for  a  moment,  on  his  wretched 

fate. 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 
lU-satisfy'd   keen   nature's   clam'rous 

call, 
Stretch'd  on  his  straw,  he  lays  himself  to 

sleep  ; 
While  through  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky 

wall, 
Chill,  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty 

heap  ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine. 
Where    Guilt    and    poor    Misfortune 

pine  ! 
Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  ! 
But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  Fortune's  undeserved  blow  ? 


Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress; 
A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the 
bliss  ! " 

IX 

I  heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 
Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw. 

And  hail'd  the  morning  with  a  cheer, 
A  cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  deep  this  truth  impress'd  my  mind* 
Thro'  all  His  works  abroad. 

The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 
The  most  resembles  God. 


STANZAS   WRITTEN   IN    PRO- 
SPECT   OF   DEATH 


Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have    I    so    found   it   full   of   pleasing 
charms  ? 
Some  drops   of   joy  with   draughts  of   iU 
between; 
Some  gleams  of  sunshine  mid  renewing 
storms. 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms: 

I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging 
rod. 


Fain   would    I    say  :    "  Forgive    my   foul 
offence," 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey. 
But  should  my  Author  health  again  dis- 
pense, 
Again  I  might  desert  fair  virtue's  way; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray; 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man. 
Then   how  should  I  for   heavenly   mercy 
pray, 
Who  act   so   counter   heavenly  mercy's 
plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn'd,  yet  to  tempta- 
tion ran  ? 

Ill 

O  Thou  great  Governor  of  all  below  !  — 
If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee,  — 


70        ADDITIONS    IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION   OF   1787 


Thy  uod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to 
blow, 
Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea: 
With   that   controlling  pow'r   assist   ev'n 
me 
Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  con- 
fine, 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  pow'rs  to  be 

To   rule    their    torrent    in   th'   allowed 
line: 
O,  aid  me  with   Thy   help,   Omnipotence 
Divine  ! 


PRAYER:    O    THOU    DREAD 
POWER 

Lying  at  a  reverend  friend's  bouse  one  night,  the 
author  left  the  following  verses  in  the  room  where 
he  slept. 

"  The  first  time  ever  Robert  heard  the  spinet 
played  was  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Lawrie,  then 
minister  of  Loudoun.  .  .  .  Dr.  Lawrie  (has) 
several  daughters  ;  one  of  them  played ;  the 
father  and  mother  led  down  the  dance ;  the 
rest  of  the  sisters,  the  brother,  the  poet,  and 
the  other  guests  mixed  in  it.  It  was  a  de- 
lightful family  scene  for  our  poet,  then  lately 
introduced  to  the  world.  His  mind  was  roused 
to  a  poetic  enthusiasm,  and  the  stanzas  were 
left  in  the  room  where  he  slept."  —  Gilbert 
Bums.  Robert  wrote  to  the  son  on  ISth  No- 
vember, 1786 :  "  A  poet's  warmest  wishes  for 
their  happiness  to  the  young  ladies,  particu- 
larly the  fair  musician,  whom  I  think  much 
better  qualified  than  ever  Da\-id  was,  or  could 
be,  to  charm  an  evil  spirit  out  of  Saul.  In- 
deed, it  needs  not  the  feelings  of  the  poet  to 
be  interested  in  the  welfare  of  one  of  the 
sweetest  scenes  of  domestic  peace  and  kindred 
love  that  ever  I  saw  ;  as  I  think  the  peaceful 
unity  of  St.  Margaret's  Hill  can  only  be  ex- 
celled by  the  harmonious  concord  of  the  Apo- 
calyptic Zion."  When  he  paid  this  visit  his 
chest  ''  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock ; "  and 
but  for  the  fact  that  Lawrie  showed  him  Dr. 
Blacklock's  letter,  strongly  recommending  a 
second  edition  of  his  poems,  he  would  have 
sailed  in  a  few  days  for  Jamaica. 


O  Thou  dread  Power,  who  reign'st  above, 

I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear. 
When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love 

I  make  my  prayer  sincere. 


The  hoary  Sire  —  the  mortal  stroke, 
Long,  long  be  pleas'd  to  spare: 

To  bless  his  little  filial  flock. 
And  show  what  good  men  are. 


Ill 


She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears  — 

O,  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys, 
But  spare  a  mother's  tears  ! 


Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth, 

In  manhood's  dawning  blush. 
Bless  him.  Thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

Up  to  a  parent's  wish. 


The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band  — 
With  earnest  tears  I  pray  — 

Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  every  hand. 
Guide  Thou  their  steps  alway. 


When,  soon  or  late,  they  reach  that  coast. 
O'er  Life's  rough  ocean  driven. 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wand'rer  lost, 
A  family  in  Heaven  ! 


PARAPHRASE    OF    THE    FIRST 
PSALM 

This  is  probably  an  early  composition,  and 
dates  from  about  the  same  time  as  the  next 
piece. 

I 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  plac'd, 

Hath  happiness  in  store, 
Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked's  way 

Kor  learns  their  guilty  lore; 


Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad. 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God! 


That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees, 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow: 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high. 
And  firm  the  root  below. 


THE   NINETIETH    PSALM   VERSIFIED 


7^ 


But  he,  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt, 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 


For  why  ?  that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  giv'n  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  meu 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


PRAYER  UNDER  THE  PRESSURE 
OF   VIOLENT   ANGUISH 

Inscribed  in  the  Fir.tt  Common  Place  Book 
and  thus  prefaced :  "  There  was  a  certain 
period  of  life  tliat  my  spirit  was  broke  by  re- 
peated losses  and  disasters,  which  threatened, 
and  indeed  effected,  the  litter  ruin  of  my  fu- 
ture. My  body,  too,  was  attacked  by  that 
most  dreadful  distemper,  a  Hypochondria,  or 
confirmed  melancholy  :  in  this  wretched  state, 
the  recollection  of  which  makes  me  yet  shud- 
der, I  hung  my  harp  on  the  willow  trees,  except 
in  some  lucid  intervals,  in  one  of  which  I  com- 
posed the  following."  It  was  probably  writ- 
ten about  the  close  of  Bums's  residence  in  Ir- 
vine, in  1782,  and,  under  the  title.  Prayer  wider 
the  Presure  of  Bitter  Anguish,  is  inscribed  — 
in  an  early  hand  —  at  the  end  of  a  copy  of 
FergTisson's  Poems,  published  that  year,  now 
in  the  possession  of  the  Earl  of  Rosebery. 


O  Thou  Great  Being  !  what  Thou  art 

Surpasses  me  to  know; 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  Thee 

Are  all  Thy  works  below. 


Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands. 

All  'Wretched  and  distrest ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  Thy  high  behest. 

Ill 

Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath! 
O,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  team's, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death! 


But,  if  I  must  afflicted  be 

To  suit  some  wise  design, 
Then  man  my  soul  with  tirm  resolves 

To  bear  and  not  repine  ! 


THE    NINETIETH    PSALM    VER- 
SIFIED 

Probably  dating   from  the  same  period  as 
the  two  last. 

I 

O  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 

Of  all  the  human  race  ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

Their  stay  and  dwelling  place  ! 


Before  the  mountains  heav'd  their  heads 

Beneath  Thy  forming  hand. 
Before  this  ponderous  globe  itself 

Arose  at  Thy  command: 


That  Power,  which  rais'd  and  still  upholds 

This  universal  frame. 
From  countless,  uubeginning  time 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 


Those  mighty  periods  of  years, 
Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 

Appear  no  more  before  Thy  sight 
Than  yesterday  that 's  past. 


Thou  giv'st  the  word:  Thy  creature,  man, 

Is  to  existence  brought; 
Again  Thou  say'st:  "  Yo  sons  of  men, 

Return  ye  into  nought  !  " 


Thou  layest  them,  with  all  their  cares, 

In  everlasting  sleep; 
As  with  a  flood  Thou  tak'st  them  off 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 


They  floui-ish  like  the  morning  flower 

In  beauty's  pride  array'd. 
But  long  ere  night,  cut  down,  it  lies 

All  wither'd  and  decay'd. 


72        ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF   1787 


TO    MISS    LOGAN 

WITH    BEATTIE'S    poems    FOR    A    NEW 
year's   gift,  JANUARY    I,    1 787 

The  Miss  Logan  of  these  verses  was  the 
"  sentimental  sister  Susie "  of  the  Epistle  to 
Major  Logan  ( post,  p.  133).  It  is  probable  that 
Burns,  when  he  last  met  her,  had  promised 
her  a  New  Year's  gift  from  Jamaica  ;  but,  his 
prospects  changing,  he  sent  her  Beattie's  vol- 
umes instead. 


Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driv'n, 

And  you,  tbo'  scarce  in  maiden  prime, 
Are  so  much  nearer  Heav'n. 


No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 

The  infant  year  to  hail; 
I  send  you  more  than  India  boasts 

In  Edwin's  simple  tale. 

Ill 

Our  sex  with  guile,  and  faithless  love, 
Is  charg'd  —  perhaps  too  true ; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 
An  Edwin  still  to  you. 


ADDRESS    TO    A   HAGGIS 

Hogg  states  that  this  spirited  extravaganza 
was  "  written  in  tlie  house  of  Mr.  Andrew 
Brace,  Castlehill.  Edinburgh,  where  a  haggis 
one  day  made  pai-t  of  the  dinner ;  "  but  it  is 
nnlikelv  that  Burns  set  to  work  on  it  there 
and  then.  Chambers's  story,  that  the  germ 
was  the  la.st  stanza  (as  first  printed)  extempo- 
rised as  grace  at  a  friend's  house,  Ls  seemingly 
a  variation  of  the  same  legend.  The  Address 
—  "never  before  published"  —  appeared  in 
The  Caledonian  Mercury  on  19th  December, 
1786,  and  in  The  Scots  Magazine  for  January, 
1787. 


Fair  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  face, 
Great  chieftain  o'  the  puddin-race  ! 
Aboon  them  a'  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm: 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a  grace 

As  lang  's  my  arm. 


The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fill, 
Your  huidies  like  a  distant  hill. 
Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a  mill 

In  time  o'  need. 
While  thro'  your  pores  the  dews  distil 

Like  amber  bead. 


His  knife  see  rustic  Labour  dight, 
An'  cut  ye  up  wi'  ready  slight, 
Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright. 

Like  onie  ditch; 
And  then,  O  what  a  glorious  sight, 

Warm-reekin,  rich  ! 


Then,  horn  for  horn,  they  stretch  an'  strive: 
Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive. 
Till  a'  their  weel-swall'd  kytes  belyve 

Are  bent  like  drums; 
Then  auld  Guidman,  maist  like  to  rive, 

"  Bethankit !  "  hums. 


Is  there  that  owre  his  French  ragout, 
Or  olio  that  wad  staw  a  sow. 
Or  fricassee  wad  mak  her  spew 

Wi'  perfect  sconner, 
Looks  down  wi'  sneering,  scornfu'  view 

On  sic  a  dinner  ? 


Poor  devil  !  see  him  owre  his  trash, 

As  feckless  as  a  wither'd  rash. 

His  spindle  shank  a  guid  whip-lash, 

His  uieve  a  nit; 
Thro'  bluidy  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

O  how  unfit ! 


But  mark  the  Rustic,  haggis-fed. 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread, 

Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a  blade, 

He  '11  make  it  whissle ; 
An'  legs,  an'  arms,  an'  heads  will  sued 

Like  taps  o'  thrissle. 


Ye  Pow'rs,  wha  mak  mankind  your  care. 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o'  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware, 

Tliat  janps  in  luggies  ; 
But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu'  prayer, 

Gie  her  a  Haggis  ! 


JOHN   BARLEYCORN 


73 


ADDRESS    TO    EDINBURGH 

This  poem  and  another  were  enclosed  in  a 
letter  from  Edinburgh,  27th  December,  1780, 
to  William  Chalmers,  in  which  Bums  stated 
that  he  "  had  carded  and  spun  them  "  since  he 
"passed  Glenbuck,"  the  last  Ayrshire  hamlet 
on  his  way  to  Edinburgh. 


Edina!  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs, 
Where  once,  beneath  a  Monarch's  feet, 

Sat  Legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs: 

From  marking  wildly-scatt'red  flow'rs. 
As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd. 

And  singing,  lone,  the  liug'ring  hours, 
I  shelter  in  thy  honor'd  shade. 


Here  Wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide. 
As  busy  Trade  his  labours  plies; 

There  Architecture's  noble  pride 
Bids  elegance  and  splendour  rise: 
Here  Justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod; 
There  Learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  Science  in  her  coy  abode. 

Ill 
Thy  sons,  Edina,  social,  kind. 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 
Their  views  enlarg'd,  their  lib'ral  mind. 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale; 

Attentive  still  to  Sorrow's  wail, 
Or  modest  Merit's  silent  claim: 

And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 
And  never  Envy  blot  their  name  ! 


Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn, 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 
Sweet  as  the  dewy,  milk-white  thorn. 

Dear  as  the  raptur'd  tlirill  of  joy  ! 

Fair  Burnet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 
Heav'n's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine: 

I  see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high. 
And  own  His  work  indeed  divine  ! 


There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 
Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar; 

Like  some  bold  vet'ran,  grey  in  arms. 
And  mark'd  with  many  a  seamy  scar: 
The  pond'rous  wall  and  massy  bar. 


Grim-rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock, 

Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war, 
And  oft  repell'd  th'  invader's  shock. 


With  awe-struck  thought  and  pitying  tears, 
I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome. 

Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years, 
Fam'd  heroes  !   had  their  royal  home: 
Alas,  how  chang'd  the  times  to  come  ! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 

Their  hapless  race  wild-wand'ring  roam  ! 

Tho'  rigid  Law  cries  out:  "  'Twas  just." 


Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 

Thro'  hostile  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps 
Old  Scotia's  bloody  lion  bore: 
Ev'n  I,  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 
And  fac'd  grim  Danger's  loudest  roar, 

Bold-following  where  your  fathers  led  ! 


Edina!  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs; 
Where  once,  beneath  a  Monarch's  feet, 

Sat  Legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs: 

From  marking  wildly-scatt'red  flow'rs, 
As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd. 

And  singing,  lone,  the  liug'ring  hours, 
I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 


SONGS 
JOHN    BARLEYCORN 

A   BALLAD 

Entered  in  the  First  Common  Place  Book 
under  date  June,  1785,  with  the  title,  John 
Barleycorn  —  A  Song  to  its  own  Tune.  Burns 
prefaces  it  with  the  remark  that  he  had  once 
heard  the  old  song-  that  goes  hy  this  name  ;  and 
that  he  remembered  only  the  three  first  verses 
and  "  some  scraps  "  which  he  had  '"  interwoven 
here  and  there  in  the  piece.''  In  the  '87  Edi- 
tion he  inserted  a  note  :  "  This  is  partly  com- 
posed on  the  plan  of  an  old  song  known  by  the 
same  name."  In  view  of  these  statements, 
special  interest  attaches  to  a  set  printed  in 
Laing's  Early  Metrical  Tales  (1826)  from  a  stall 
copy  of  1781,  with  a  few  corrections  on  the 


74        ADDITIONS    IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION   OF    1787 


authority  of  two  others  of  later  date.     Here 
are  the  three  first  stanzas  :  — 

"  There  came  three  merry  men  from  the  east, 
And  three  merry  men  were  they, 
And  they  did  sware  a  solemn  oath 
That  Sir  John  Barleycorn  they  would  slay. 

"  They  took  a  plough,  and  plough'd  him  down, 
And  laid  clods  upon  his  head  ; 
And  then  they  swore  a  solemn  oath. 
That  Sir  John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

"  But  the  spring-time  it  came  on  amain. 
And  rain  towards  the  earth  did  fall : 
John  Barleycorn  sprung  up  again, 
And  so  subdued  them  all." 

Robert  Jamieson  prints  a  set  in  his  Popular 
Ballads  and  Songs  (1806)  as  he  heard  it  in 
Moray  when  a  boy.  In  its  first  three  verses  it 
closely  resembles  the  Bums  ;  but  Burns's 
poems  were  in  circulation  before  Jamieson's 
boyhood  was  over,  and  may  have  influenced 
his  memory.  He  prints  another  set  from  a 
black-letter  copy  in  the  Pepys  Library,  Cam- 
bridge, as  well  as  sets  of  the  analogous  Allan- 
a-Maut  ballad,  including  that  in  The  Bannatyne 
MS.  There  is,  further,  a  curious  chap  (1757) 
which  is  not  included  in  Jamieson.  The  un- 
grammatical  "  was  "  in  Bums's  first  line  was 
probably  suggested  by  "  There  was  three 
ladies  in  a  ha',''  in  Herd's  Ancient  and  Modern 
Scottish  Songs  (1776). 


There  was  three  kings  into  the  east, 
Three  kings  both  great  and  high, 

And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 


They   took   a   plough    and   plough'd   him 
down, 

Put  clods  upon  his  head, 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 


But  the  cheerful  Spring  came  kindly  on. 

And  show'rs  began  to  fall; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  sore  surpris'd  them  all. 


The  sultry  suns  of  Summer  came, 
And  he  grew  thick  and  strong: 

His  head  weel  arm'd  wi'  pointed  spears, 
That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 


The  sober  Autumn  enter'd  mild, 
When  he  grew  wan  and  pale; 

His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Show'd  he  began  to  fail. 


His  colour  sicken'd  more  and  more. 

He  faded  into  age; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 


They  've  taen  a  weapon  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee; 
Then  ty'd  him  fast  upon  a  cart. 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 

VIII 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 
And  cudgell'd  him  full  sore. 

They  hung  him  up  before  the  stonn. 
And  turn'd  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

IX 

They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim, 
They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn  — 

There,  let  him  sink  or  swim  ! 


They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor. 

To  work  him  farther  woe; 
And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appear'd, 

They  toss'd  him  to  and  fro. 

XI 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame 

The  marrow  of  his  bones; 
But  a  miller  us'd  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crushed  him  between  two  stones. 


And  they  hae  taen  his  very  heart's  blood. 
And  drank  it  round  and  round; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank. 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

XIII 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise; 
For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

'Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 


A   FRAGMENT:   WHEN   GUILFORD   GOOD 


75 


'T  will  make  a  man  forget  his  woe ; 

'T  will  heighten  all  his  joy: 
'T  will  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing, 

Tho'  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 


XV 


Then  let  ns  toast  John  Barleycorn, 
Each  man  a  glass  in  hand ; 

And  may  his  great  posterity 
Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland  ! 


A   FRAGMENT  :    WHEN    GUIL- 
FORD  GOOD 

Tune:  Gillicrmtkie 

This  was  probably  the  "  political  ballad  ' ' 
which  Burns  enclosed  to  Henry  Erskine  —  on 
the  advice  of  Glencairn  —  for  his  opinion  as 
to  whether  he  should  or  should  not  publish 
it.  The  work  of  some  nameless  Loyalist,  tlie 
old  song  on  which  it  is  moulded  is  printed 
in  David  Laing's  Various  Pieces  of  Fugitive 
Scottish  Poetry,  First  Series  (1826),  which 
dates  it  1689,  under  the  title,  Killychrankie 
[the  battle  was  fought  in  that  year] ,  "  To  be 
Sung  to  its  Own  Tune  :  "  — 

"  Claverse  and  his  Highland  men 
Came  down  upon  a  Raw,  then, 
Who,  being  stout,  gave  many  a  Clout, 
The  Lads  began  to  claw  then  ;  " 

and  so  on  for  eight  mortal  octaves.  The  same 
volume  sets  forth  an  Answer  to  the  same  tune 
in  as  many  more. 


When  Guilford  good  our  pilot  stood, 

An'  did  our  hellim  thraw,  man; 
Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a  plea. 

Within  Americfl,  man  : 
Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin-pat, 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man; 
An'  did  nae  less,  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 


Then  thro'  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 

I  wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man; 
Down  Lowrie's  Burn  he  took  a  turn, 

And  Carleton  did  ca',  man  : 


But  yet,  what  reck,  he  at  Quebec 
Montgomery-like  did  fa',  man, 

Wi'  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 
Amang  his  en'mies  a',  man. 


Poor  Tammy  Gage  within  a  cage 

Was  kept  at  Boston-ha',  man; 
Till  Willie  Howe  took  o'er  the  knows 

For  Philadelphia,  man; 
Wi'  sword  an'  gun  he  thought  a  sin 

Guid  Christian  bluid  to  draw,  man; 
But  at  New-York  wi'  knife  an'  fork 

Sir-Loin  he  hacked  sma',  man. 


Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  an'  whip. 

Till  Eraser  brave  did  fa',  man; 
Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day. 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 
Cornwallis  fought  as  lang  's  he  dought. 

An'  did  the  buckskins  claw,  man  ; 
But  Clinton's  glaive  frae  rust  to  save. 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa',  man. 


Then  Montague,  an'  Guilford  too, 

Began  to  fear  a  fa',  man; 
And  Sackville  doure,  wha  stood  the  stoure 

The  German  chief  to  thraw,  man: 
For  Paddy  Burke,  like  onie  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a',  man; 
An'  Charlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box. 

An'  lows'd  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 


Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game, 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca',  man; 
When  Shelbiirne  meek  held  up  his  cheek, 

Conform  to  gospel  law,  man  : 
Saint  Stephen's  boys,  wi'  jarring  noise. 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man ; 
For  North  an'  Fox  united  stocks. 

An'  bore  him  to  the  wa',  man. 

VII 

Then  clubs  an'  hearts  were  Charlie's  cartes 

He  swept  the  stakes  awa',  man. 
Till  tlie  diamond's  ace,  of  Indian  race. 

Led  him  a  sair  faux  patt,  man  : 
The  Saxon  lads,  wi'  loud  placads. 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca',  man; 
An'  Scotland  drew  her  pipe  an'  blew  : 

"Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a',  man  !" 


76        ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION  OF   1787 


VIII 

Behind  the  throne  then  Granville 's  gone, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man; 
While  slee  Dundas  arous'd  the  class 

Be-north  the  Roman  wa',  man: 
An'  Chatham's  wraith,  in  heav'uly  graith, 

(Inspired  bardies  saw,  man), 
Wi'  kindling  eyes,  cry'd:  "Willie,  rise  ! 

Would  I  hae  fear'd  them  a',  man  ?  " 


But,  word  an'  blow,  North,  Fox,  and  Co. 

Gowtf'd  Willie  like  a  ba',  man, 
Till  Suthron  raise  an'  coost  their  claise 

Behind  him  in  a  raw,  man: 
An'  Caledon  threw  by  the  drone. 

An'  did  her  whittle  draw,  man; 
An'  swoor  fu'  rude,  thro'  dirt  an'  bluid, 

To  make  it  guid  in  law,  man. 


MY    NANIE,    O 

Perhaps  suggested  by  a  poor  thing  of  Ram- 
say's :  — 

"  While  some  for  pleasure  pawn  their  health 
'Twixt  Lais  and  the  bagnio, 
I  '11  save  myself,  and  without  stealth 
Kiss  and  caress  my  Jfanny,  O." 

In  Hogg  and  Motherwell's  Edition  another 
version  —  oral:  communicated  by  Peter  Bu- 
chan  —  is  printed  ;  it  begins,  "  As  I  gaed  down 
thro'  Embro'  town."  In  the  First  Common 
Place  Book,  where  it  appears  under  date  of 
April,  1784,  it  is  headed  Song  (Tune,  ''''As  I 
came  in  by  London,  O").  It  is  thus  prefaced: 
"  As  I  have  been  all  along  a  miserable  dupe 
to  Love,  and  have  been  led  into  a  thousand 
weaknesses  and  follies  by  it,  for  that  reason 
I  put  the  more  confidence  in  my  critical  skill 
in  distinguishing  foppery  and  conceit  from  real 
passion  and  nature.  Whether  the  following 
song  will  stand  the  test,  I  will  not  pretend  to 
say,  because  it  is  my  own ;  only  I  can  say  it 
was,  at  the  time,  real." 

According  to  Gilbert  Bums,  the  heroine  was 
Agnes  Fleming.  She  was  daughter  of  John 
Fleming,  farmer  at  Doura,  in  the  parish  of 
Tarbolton.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Begg 
asserts  that  it  was  written  in  honour  of  Peggy 
Thomson  of  Kirkoswald  (see  ante.  p.  .')2,  Prefa- 
tory Note  to  Song :  Composed  in  August),  while 
Hamilton  Paul  champions  the  charms  of  a 
Kilmarnock  girl. 


Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows 
'Mang  moors  an'  mosses  many,  O, 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  clos'd, 
And  I  '11  awa  to  Nanie,  O. 


The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  an'  shill, 
The  night 's  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  O ; 

But  I  '11  get  my  plaid,  an'  out  I  '11  steal. 
An'  owre  the  hill  to  Nanie,  O. 

Ill 

My  Nanie 's  charming,  sweet,  an'  young; 

Nae  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  O: 
May  ill  befa'  the  flattering  tongue 

That  wad  beguile  my  Nanie,  0  ! 


Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true; 

As  spotless  as  she  's  bonie,  O, 
The  op'ning  gowan,  wat  wi'  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nanie,  O. 


A  country  lad  is  my  degree, 

An'  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O; 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be  ? 
I  'm  welcome  ay  to  Nanie,  O. 


My  riches  a  's  my  penny- fee. 
An'  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  O; 

But  warl's  gear  ne'er  troubles  me. 
My  thoughts  are  a'  —  my  Nanie,  O. 


Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  an'  kye  thrive  bonie,  O; 

But  I  'm  as  blythe  that  bauds  his  pleugh, 
An'  has  nae  care  but  Nanie,  O. 


Come  weel,  come  woe,  I  care  na  by; 

I  '11  tak  what  Heav'n  will  send  me,  O : 
Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live,  an'  love  my  Nanie,  O. 


GREEN   GROW   THE    RASHES,   O 

This  little  masterpiece  of  wit  and  gaiety  and 
movement  was  suggested  either  by  the  fra^- 


COMPOSED   IN   SPRING 


77 


ment,  Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  O  in  Herd's 
Ancient  and  Modern  Scottish  Songs,  or  by  the 
blackguard  old  song  itself.  Herd  gives  only 
three  stanzas,  of  which  the  first  is  :  — 

"  Green  grows  the  rashes  —  O 
Green  grows  the  rashes  —  O 
The  feather-bed  is  no  sae  saft 
As  a  bed  amang  the  rashes." 

But  the  song  (or  what  is  left  of  it)  is  given  in 
the  unique  and  interesting  garland  called  The 
Merry  Muses  of  Caledonia  (c.  1800),  probably 
—  almost  certainly  —  collected  by  Burns  for 
his  private  use,  together  with  a  second  and  still 
grosser  set  attributed,  rightly  or  wrongly,  to 
Burns  himself. 

Entered  by  Burns  in  the  First  Common  Place 
Book,  under  date  August,  1786,  the  piece  is 
preceded  by  a  dissertation  on  young  men,  who 
are  divided  into  "  two  grand  classes  —  the 
grave  and  the  merry,"  and  by  the  remark: 
"  It  will  enable  any  Ijody  to  determine  which 
of  the  classes  I  belong  to."  It  was  published 
in  Johnson's  Museum,  i.  77.  Thomson  proposed 
to  set  it  to  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen  ;  but  Burns 
declared  that  it  would  "  never  suit "  that  air. 

CHORUS 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ; 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 
The  svreetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  among  the  lasses,  O. 


There  's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  ban', 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  O: 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An'  'twere  nae  for  the  lasses,  O. 

II 

The  war'ly  race  may  riches  chase, 
An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O ; 

An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  0. 


But  gie  me  a  cannie  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O, 

An'  war'ly  cares  an'  war'ly  men 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O  ! 


For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this; 

Ye  're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O ; 
The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  O. 


Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O: 

Her  prentice  ban'  she  try'd  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 


CHORUS 


Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ; 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  among  the  lasses,  O. 


COMPOSED    IN    SPRING 

Tune  :  Johnnys  Grey  Breeks 

Burns  explains  that  the  chorus  is  "  part  of  a 
song  composed  by  a  gentleman  in  Edinburgh, 
a  particular  friend  of  the  author's  ;  "  and  that 
"  Menie "  is  the  "common  abbreviation  of 
Marianne."  In  all  likelihood  the  song  was 
composed  after  the  rupture  with  Jean  Armour, 
and  the  chorus  added  in  Edinburgh  by  Burns 
himself. 


Again  rejoicing  Nature  sees 

Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues: 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze. 
All  freshly  steep'd  in  morning  dews. 

CHORUS 

And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat, 

And  bear  the  scorn  that 's  in  her  e'e  ? 

For  it 's  jet,  jet-black,  an'  it 's  like  a  hawk, 
An'  it  winua  let  a  body  be. 


In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw. 
In  vain  to  me  the  vi'lets  spring; 

In  vain  to  me  in  glen  or  shaw, 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 


The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 
Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks; 

But  life  to  me  's  a  weary  dream, 
A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 


The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 
Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 


78         ADDITIONS    IN    THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF   1787 


The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 
And  ev'ry  thing  is  blest  but  I. 


The  sheep-herd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 
And  o'er  the  moorlands  whistles  shill; 

Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wand'ring  step, 
I  meet  him  ou  the  dewy  hill. 


And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  and  dark, 
Blythe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side, 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 
A  woe-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide. 


Come  winter,  with  thine  angry  howl. 
And  raging,  bend  the  naked  tree; 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul. 
When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me  ! 


And  maun  I  still  on  Meuie  doat. 

And  bear  the  scorn  that 's  in  her  e'e  ? 

For  it 's  jet,  jet-black,  an'  it 's  like  a  hawk, 
An'  it  winna  let  a  body  be. 


THE    GLOOMY   NIGHT    IS 
GATHERING   FAST 

Tune:  Roslin  Castle 

In  an  interleaved  copy  of  Johnson's  Museum 
^nms  inscribed  the  following'  note  :  "  I  com- 
posed this  song  as  I  conveyed  my  chest  so  far 
on  the  road  to  Greenock,  where  I  was  to 
embark  in  a  few  days  for  Jamaica.  I  meant 
it  as  my  farewell  dirge  to  my  native  land." 
In  his  Autobiographic  Letter  to  Dr.  Moore, 
"  I  had  composed,''  he  says,  "  a  song,  The 
Gloomy  Night  is  Gathering  Fast,  which  was  to 
be  the  last  effort  of  my  muse  in  Caledonia, 
when  a  letter  from  Dr.  Blacklock  to  a  friend 
of  mine  overthrew  all  my  schemes."  Professor 
Walker,  on  E.  B."s  authority,  affirms  that  he 
composed  it  on  the  way  home  from  Dr.  Law- 
rie's ;  but,  as  it  was  to  Dr.  Lawrie  that  Black- 
lock  wrote,  we  must  infer  that  Walker  was  so 
far  mistaken,  and  that  the  verses  were  made 
on  the  way  thither. 

Bums  gives  Roslin  Castle  as  the  tune  to 
which  this  passionate  lyric  should  be  sung. 
His  use  of  a  refrain,  however,  suggests  that 
the  true  model  was  The  Birks  of  Invermay. 


The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast. 
Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast; 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  filled  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain; 
The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 
The  scatt'red  coveys  meet  secure; 
While  here  I  wander,  prest  with  care. 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 


The  Autumn  mourns  her  rip'ning  corn 
By  early  A\'inter's  ravage  torn; 
Across  her  placid,  azure  sky. 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly; 
Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave: 
I  think  upon  the  stormy  wave. 
Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare. 
Far  from  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr. 


'Tis  not  the  surging  billows'  roar, 
'Tis  not  that  fatal,  deadly  shore; 
Tho'  death  in  ev'ry  shape  appear, 
The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear: 
But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  transpierc'd  with  many  a  wound; 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear. 
To  leave  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr, 

IV 

Farewell,  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales. 
Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales; 
The  scenes  where  wretched  Fancy  roves. 
Pursuing  past  unhappy  loves  ! 
Farewell  my  friends  !  farewell  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those  — 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare, 
Farewell,  my  bonie  banks  of  Ayr. 


NO    CHURCHMAN   AM    I 

Tune  :  Prepare,  7ny  dear  Brethren 

This  poor  performance,  written  probably  in 
1781  or  1782  for  the  Tarbolton  Bachelors' 
Club,  in  imitation  of  a  popular  type  of  English 
drinking  song,  appears  to  have  been  suggested 
and  inspired  by  a  far  better  piece.  The  Women 
all  Tell  Me  I'm  False  to  My  Lass  (c.  1740 :  still 
to  be  heard  as  Wine,  Mighty  Wine),  the  air  of 
which  may  well  have  been  in  Burns's  ear  when 
he  directed  his  own  words  to  be  sung  to  the 


NO    CHURCHMAN    AM   I 


79 


tune  of  Prepare,  my  Dear  Brethren.  It  is 
quoted,  according  to  Mr.  Baring  Gould  (Eng- 
lish Minstrelsie,  1895,  I.  xxiii. ),  in  The  Bull- 
Jinch  (1746),  The  Wreath  (1753),  and  The  Oc- 
casional Songster  (178:^) ;  and  we  have  found 
it,  as  Burns  before  us,  in  A  Select  Collection  of 
English  Songs  (London,  1763)  —  an  odd  vol- 
ume of  which,  containing  this  very  lyric,  with 
notes  in  his  handwriting,  is  before  us  as  we 
write  —  and  in  Calliope  (Edinburgh,  1788). 
Here  is  a  stanza  which  must  certainly  have 
been  present  Avhen  he  was  struggling  with  the 
halting  lines  and  the  second-rate  buckishness 
of  No  Churchman  Am  I :  — 

"  She  too  might  have  poisoned  the  joy  of  my  life 
Witli  nurses,  and  babies,  and  squalling,  and  strife  ; 
But  my  wine  neither  nurses  nor  babies  can  bring, 
And  a  big-bellied  bottle  's  a  mighty  good  thing." 

The  anapest  with  four  accents  has  carried  a 
bacchanalian  connotation  from  the  time  of 
Shadweil's  Psyche  (1672)  at  least,  and  the  pre- 
sent stave  has  been  the  vehicle  of  innumerable 
drinking  songs,  including  the  English  A  Tank- 
ard of  Ale,  and  the  Irish  One  Bottle  More. 
Burns  himself  reverts  to  it  in  The  Whistle  (see 
post,  p.  99). 

I 

No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write, 
No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight, 
No  sly  man  of  business  contriving  a  snare, 
For  a  big-belly'd  bottle 's  the  whole  of  my 
care. 


The  peer  I  don't  envy,  I  give  him  his  bow; 
I  scorn  not  the  peasant,  tho'  ever  so  low; 
But  a  club  of  good  fellows,  like  those  that 

are  here, 
And  a  bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and 

care. 


Here  passes  the  squire  on  his  brother  —  his 

horse, 
There  centum  per  centum,  the  cit  with  his 

purse, 
But  see  you  The  Crown,  how  it  waves  in 

the  air  ? 
There  a  big-belly'd  bottle  still  eases  my  care. 


The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas  !  she  did  die; 
For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I  did  fly; 
I  found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair, 
That  a  big-belly'd  bottle  's  a  cure  for  all 
care. 


I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to  make; 
A  letter  inform'd  me  that  all  was  to  wreck; 
But   the  pursy  old  landlord  just  waddled 

up  stairs, 
With  a  glorious  bottle  that  ended  my  cares. 


"  Life's    cares    they   are    comforts  "  —  a 

maxim  laid  down 
By  the  Bard,  what  d'  ye  call   him  ?  that 

wore  the  black  gown; 
And  faith  I  agree  with  th'  old  prig  to  a  hair: 
For  a  big-belly'd  bottle  's  a  heav'n  of  a  care. 

A    STAXZA   ADDED   IN   A    MASON   LODGE 

Then  fill  up  a  bumper  and  make  it  o'erflow, 
And  honours  Masonic  prepare  for  to  throw: 
May  ev'ry  true  Brother  of   the    Compass 

and  Square 
Have  a  big-belly'd  bottle,  when  harass'd 

with  care  ! 


8o        ADDITIONS    IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION   OF    1793 


ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION    OF   1793 


In  April,  1792,  Creech  proposed  another  is- 
sue, and  Burns  replied  with  an  offer  of  fifty  new 
pages,  and  the  retrenchment  and  correction 
of  some  old  pieces.  Reminding  his  publisher 
that  these  fifty  pages  were  as  much  his  own 
"  as  the  thumb-skull  I  have  just  now  drawn  on 
my  finger,  which  I  unfortunately  gashed  in 
mending  my  pen,"  he  practically  agreed  to 
Creech's  former  terms :  craving  as  his  sole 
recompence  a  few  books  which  he  very  much 
wanted,  "  with  as  many  copies  of  this  new  edi- 
tion of  my  own  works  as  friendship  or  grati- 
tude shall  prompt  me  to  present."  Creech  was 
not  the  man  to  boggle  at  a  bargain  of  the  kind, 


and  the  new  edition  appeared  in  the  February 
of  1793,  under  the  title  :  "  Poems  chiefly  in  the 
Scottish  Dialect.  By  Robert  Burns.  In  two 
volumes.  The  Second  Edition  Considerably 
Enlarged.  Edinburgh  :  Printed  for  T.  Cadell, 
London,  and  William  Creech,  Edinburgh. 
1793."  The  volumes,  with  nearly  the  same 
page  and  the  same  type,  but  with  many  changes 
in  spelling,  and  some  new  readings  of  lines 
and  stanzas,  were  reprinted  early  in  1794,  with 
—  excepting  for  the  substitution  of  "  a  New 
Edition  "  for  "  the  Second  Edition  "  —  an  ex- 
actly similar  title.  No  other  Scots  reprint  ap- 
peared in  Burns's  lifetime. 


WRITTEN    IN    FRIARS    CARSE 
HERMITAGE,  ON  NITHSIDE 

This  is  the  second  version  of  a  piece  origi- 
nally inscribed  on  a  window-pane  of  Friars 
Carse  Hermitage  in  June,  1788  (see post,  p.  120). 
Friars  Carse  adjoined  Ellisland,  and  the  owner. 
Captain  Robert  Riddell  of  Glenriddell,  had 
given  Bums  a  key  to  the  grounds  and  the 
little  hermitage  which  he  had  built  there.  It 
would  appear  from  an  undated  letter  to  William 
Dunbar  (asking  him  to  decide  between  the  two 
sets),  and  from  the  fact  that  Bums  distributed 
copies  of  both,  that  he  was  by  no  means  con- 
vinced of  the  superiority  of  the  second  set. 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 
Be  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole, 
Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 
Sprung  from  night,  —  in  darkness  lost: 
Hope  not  sunshine  ev'ry  hour, 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lour. 

As  Youth  and  Love  with  sprightly  dance 
Beneath  thy  morning  star  advance. 
Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair: 
Let  Prudence  bless  Enjoyment's  cup, 
Then  raptur'd  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high. 
Life's  meridian  flaming  nigh, 
Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 
Life's  proud  sumxaits  woxxld'st  thou  scale  ? 


Check  thy  climbing  step,  elate, 
Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait: 
Dangers,  eagle-pinioned,  bold. 
Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold; 
While  cheerful  Peace  with  linnet  song 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  ev'uing  close, 
Beck'ning  thee  to  long  repose; 
As  life  itself  becomes  disease, 
Seek  the  chimney-nook  of  ease: 
There  ruminate  with  sober  thought, 
On    all    thou    'st   seen,   and    heard,    and 

wrought ; 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound: 
Say,  man's  true,  genuine  estimate, 
The  grand  criterion  of  bis  fate. 
Is  not.  Art  thou  high  or  low  ? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 
Or  frugal  Nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind. 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find, 
The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heav'n 
To  Virtue  or  to  Vice  is  giv'n ; 
Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise  — 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways 
Lead  to  be  wretched,  vile,  and  base. 

Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep: 
Sleep,  whence  thou  shall  ne'er  awake, 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break ; 
Till  future  life,  future  no  more. 


ODE,    SACRED   TO   THE   MEMORY   OF    MRS.    OSWALD 


To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 
To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

\j       Stranger,  go  !     Heav'n  be  thy  guide  ! 
I'       Quod  the  beadsman  of  Nithside. 


ODE,  SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY 
OF  MRS.  OSWALD  OF  AUCHEN- 
CRUIVE 

In  a  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  23d  March,  1789, 
enclosing'  this  Ode  Burns  explains  its  origin: 
"  In  January  last,  on  my  road  to  Ayrshire,  I 
had  put  up  at  Bailie  Whigham's  in  Sanquhar, 
the  only  tolerable  inn  in  the  place.  The  frost 
was  keen,  and  the  grim  evening  and  howling 
wind  were  ushering  in  a  night  of  snow  and 
drift.  My  horse  and  I  were  both  much  fatigued 
with  the  labours  of  the  day,  and  just  as  my 
friend  the  Bailie  and  I  were  bidding  defiance 
to  the  storm,  over  a  smoking  bowl,  in  wheels 
the  funeral  pageantry  of  the  late  great  Mrs. 
Oswald  ;  and  poor  I  am  forced  to  brave  all  the 
horrors  of  a  tempestuous  night,  and  jade  my 
horse,  my  young  favourite  horse,  whom  I  had 
just  christened  Pegasus,  twelve  miles  further 
on,  through  the  wildest  moors  and  hills  of  Ayr- 
shire, to  New  Cumnock,  the  next  inn.  The 
powers  of  poesy  and  prose  sink  under  me,  when 
I  would  describe  what  I  felt.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  when  a  good  fire  at  New  Cumnock  had  so 
far  recovered  my  frozen  sinews,  I  sat  down  and 
wrote  the  enclosed  ode."  In  a  letter  (unpub- 
lished) to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  enclosing  the  copy  of 
the  Ode,  "  Before  I  reached  the  other  stage," 
he  writes,  "  I  had  composed  the  following,  and 
sent  it  off  at  the  first  post  office  for  the  Cour- 
ant,"  by  which,  if  this  be  true,  it  was  declined. 
On  May  7,  1789,  the  piece  appeared  in  Stu- 
art's Star  with  the  following  preface,  here  for 
the  first  time  reprinted  :  — 

*'  Mr.  Printer, 

"  I  know  not  who  is  the  author  of  the  fol- 
lowing poem,  but  I  think  it  contains  some 
equally  well-told  and  just  compliments  to  the 
memory  of  a  matron  who,  a  few  months  ago, 
much  against  her  private  inclination,  left  tliis 
good  world  and  twice  five  good  thousands  per 
annum  behind  her. 

"  We  are  told  by  very  respectable  authority 
that  '  the  righteous  die  and  none  regardeth  ; ' 
but  as  this  was  by  no  means  the  case  in  point 
with  the  departed  beldam,  for  whose  memory 
I  have  the  honour  to  interest  myself,  it  is  not 
easy  guessing  why  prose  and  verse  have  both 
said  so  little  on  the  death  of  the  owner  of  ten 
thousand  a  year. 

"  I  dislike  partial  respect  of  persons,  and  am 


hurt  to  see  the  public  make  such  a  fuss  when 
a  poor  pennyless  gipsey  is  consigned  over  to 
Jack  Ketch,  and  yet  scarce  take  any  notice 
when  a  purse-proud  Priestess  of  Mammon  is 
by  the  memorable  hand  of  death  prisoned  in 
everlasting  fetters  of  ill-gotten  gold,  and  de- 
livered up  to  the  arch-brother  among  the  fin- 
ishers of  the  law,  emphatically  called  by  your 
bard,  the  hangman  of  creation. 

"  Tim  Nettle." 

Mrs.  Oswald  was  the  widow  of  Richard  Os- 
wald, second  son  of  Rev.  George  Oswald,  of 
Dunnet,  Caithness.  He  purchased  Auchen- 
cruive  in  1772.  He  died  at  an  "advanced 
age,"  6th  November,  1784,  and  in  the  obituary 
notice  in  The  Scots  Magazine  is  described  as 
"  an  eminent  merchant  in  London,  and  lately 
employed  at  Paris  as  a  commissioner  for  nego- 
tiating a  peace  with  the  United  States."  From 
Burns's  epithet,  "Plunderer  of  Armies,"  he 
would  appear  to  have  been  also  an  army  con- 
tractor. In  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  Burns  states 
that  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Oswald  was  detested 
by  her  tenants  and  servants  "  with  the  most 
heartfelt  cordiality."  She  died  6th  December, 
1788,  at  her  house  in  Great  George  Street,  West- 
minster, and  when  Burns  was  driven  from  his 
inn  by  her  "  funeral  pageantry,"  the  body  was 
on  its  way  to  Ayrshire.  Burns  himself  was 
proceeding  in  the  same  direction  (as  we  learn 
from  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  of  18th  December) 
to  the  Ayr  Fair,  held  about  the  12th  January 

Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark, 
Hangman  of  creation,  mark  ! 
Who  in  widow-weeds  appears, 
Laden  with  unhonoured  years. 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse, 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  ? 

STROPHE 

View  the  wither'd  beldam's  face: 

Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 

Aught     of     Humanity's     sweet,     melting 

grace  ? 
Note  that  eye,  't  is  rheum  o'erflows  — 
Pity's  flood  there  never  rose. 
See  those  hands,  ne'er  stretch'd  to  save, 
Hands  that  took,  but  never  gave. 
Keeper  of  Mammon's  iron  chest, 
Lo,  there  she  goes,  impitied  and  unblest. 
She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  everlasting 

rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE 

Plunderer  of  Armies  !  lift  thine  eyes 
(A  while  forbear,  ye  torturing  fiends), 


82         ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF    1793 


Seest  thou  whose   step,   unwilling,   hither 

bends  ? 
No  fallen  angel,  huil'd  from  upper  skies  ! 
'T  is  thy  trusty,  quondam  Mate, 
Doom'd  to  share  thy  fiery  fate: 
She,  tardy,  hell- ward  plies. 

EPODE 

And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 
Ten  thousand  glittering  pounds  a-year  ? 
In  other  worlds  can  Mammon  fail. 
Omnipotent  as  he  is  here  ? 
O  bitter  mockery  of  the  pompous  bier  ! 
While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is 
driven. 
The  cave-lodg'd  beggar,  with  a  conscience 
clear, 
Expii-es  in  rags,  unknown,  and  goes  to 
Heaven. 


ELEGY  ON  CAPTAIN  MATTHEW 
HENDERSON 

A  GENTLEMAN  WHO  HELD  THE  PATENT 
FOR  HIS  HONOURS  IMMEDIATELY  FROM 
ALMIGHTY  GOD  ! 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run. 
For  Matthew's  course  was  bright : 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun 
A  matchless,  Heavenly  light. 

Matthew  Henderson  was  the  son  of  David 
Henderson,  of  Tannoekside,  and  Elizabeth 
Brown  ;  born  24th  February,  1737  ;  succeeded 
in  early  youth  to  the  estates  on  his  father's 
death ;  became  lieutenant  in  the  Earl  of 
Home's  re^ment ;  left  the  army  to  hold  a 
government  appointment  in  Edinburgh ;  was 
a  member  of  the  Poker  and  other  convivial 
clubs,  and  a  friend  of  Boswell,  who  has  pre- 
served one  or  two  samples  of  his  wit ;  died  21st 
November,  1788  ;  and  was  buried  in  Greyfriars' 
Churchyard. 

On  23d  July,  1790,  Bums  sent  "  a  first  fair 
copy  "  to  Robert  Cleghorn,  Saughton,  to  whom 
he  stated  that  Henderson  was  a  man  he  "  much 
regarded."  On  2d  August  he  sent  a  copy  to 
John  M'Murdo  of  Drumlanrig :  "You  knew 
Henderson,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  not  flattered 
his  memory."  And  in  enclosing  a  copy  to  Dr. 
Moore  (27tii  February,  1791)  he  described  the 
Elegy  as  "  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  man  I 
loved  much." 


O  Death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody  ! 
The  meikle  Devil  wi'  a  woodie 
Haurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie 

O'er  hurcheon  hides, 
And  like  stock-fish  come  o'er  his  studdie 

Wi'  thy  auld  sides  ! 


He  's  gane,  he  's  gane  !  he  's  frae  us  torn. 

The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born  ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sel  shall  mourn, 

By  wood  and  wild, 
Where,  haply,  Pitj'  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exil'd. 


Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o'  the  starus. 
That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns  ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 

Wliere  Echo  slumbers  ! 
Come  join  ye.  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns, 

My  wailing  numbers  ! 


Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 
Ye  hazly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wimplin  down  your  glens 

Wi'  toddlin  din. 
Or  foaming,  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin  ! 


Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea; 
Ye  stately  foxgloves,  fair  to  see; 
Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonilie 

In  scented  bowers; 
Y'^e  roses  on  jour  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o'  flowers  ! 


At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 

Droops  with  a  diamond  at  his  head; 

At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed 

I'  th'  rustling  gale; 
Ye  maukins,  whiddin  through  the  glade; 

Come  join  my  wail ! 

VII 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud; 
Ye  curlews,  calling  thro'  a  clud; 

Ye  whistling  plover; 


THE   EPITAPH 


83 


A.nd  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood: 
He  's  gaue  for  ever  ! 

VIII 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals; 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake; 
Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake  ! 


Mourn,  clara'ring  craiks,  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flow'ring  clover  gay  ! 
And  when  you  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore, 
Tell  thae  far  warlds  wha  lies  in  clay, 

Wham  we  deplore. 


Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bower 

In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tower. 

What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  giowr, 

Sets  up  her  horn, 
Wail  thro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn  ! 


O  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains: 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 

But  tales  of  woe  ? 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 


Mourn,  Spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year  ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear: 
Thou,  Simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  head. 
Thy  gay,  green,  flowery  tresses  shear 

For  him  that 's  dead  ! 

XIII 

Thou,  Autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair. 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 
Thou,  Winter,  hurling  thro'  the  air 

The  roaring  blast, 
Wide  o'er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we  've  lost  ! 

XIV 

Mourn  him,  thou  Sun,  great  source  of  light  ! 
Mourn,  Empress  of  the  silent  night ! 


And  you,  ye  twinkling  staruies  bright, 
My  Matthew  mourn  ! 

For  through  your  orbs  he  's  taen  his  flight, 
Ne'er  to  return. 


O  Henderson  !  the  man  !  the  brother  ! 
And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ? 
And  hast  thou  crost  that  unknown  river. 

Life's  dreary  bound  ? 
Like  thee,  where  shall  I  find  another, 

The  world  around  ? 

XVI 

Go  to  your  sculptur'd  tombs,  ye  Great, 
In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state  ! 
But  by  thy  honest  turf  I  '11  wait. 

Thou  man  of  worth  ! 
And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow's  fate 

E'er  lay  in  earth  ! 


THE    EPITAPH 


Stop,  passenger  !  my  story 's  brief, 
And  truth  I  shall  relate,  man: 

I  tell  nae  common  tale  o'  grief. 
For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 


If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spurn 'd  at  Fortune's  door,  man; 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast, 

For  Matthew  was  a  poor  man. 


If  thou  a  noble  sodger  art. 

That  passest  by  this  grave,  man; 

There  moulders  here  a  gallant  heart. 
For  Matthew  was  a  brave  man. 


If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  wavs, 
Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man ; 

Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise, 
For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man. 


If  thou,  at  Friendship's  sacred  ca', 
Wad  life  itself  resign,  man; 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa'. 
For  Matthew  was  a  kind  man. 


84        ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION    OF    1793 


If  thou  art  staunch,  without  a  stain, 
Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man; 

This  was  a  kinsman  o'  thy  ain, 
For  Matthew  was  a  true  man. 

VII 

If  thou  hast  wit  and  fun,  and  fire, 
And  ne'er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man; 

This  was  thy  billie,  dam,  and  sire, 
For  Matthew  was  a  queer  man. 


If  onie  whiggish,  whingin  sot, 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man; 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot ! 
For  Matthew  was  a  rare  man. 


LAMENT    OF    MARY   QUEEN    OF 
SCOTS 

ON   THE   APPROACH    OF    SPRING 

In  enclosing  this  to  Dr.  John  Moore,  27th 
February,  1791,  Burns  states  that  it  was  begun 
while  he  was  busy  with  Percy's  Beliques  of 
English  Poetry  :  hence  its  antique  flavouring. 
He  sent  copies  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  to  Mrs.  Graham 
of  Fintry,  to  Claiinda,  and  to  Lady  Winifred 
Constable,  and  was  at  pains  to  tell  each  of  the 
four  the  reason  why  she  was  thus  specially 
favoured.  In  an  unpublished  letter  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop  (6th  June,  1790),  he  wrote:  "You 
know  and  with  me  pity  the  miserable  and 
unfortimate  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  To  you 
and  your  yoimg  ladies  I  particularly  dedicate 
the  following  Scots  stanzas."  It  was  probably 
about  the  same  time  that  in  an  undated  letter  — 
(usually  assigned  to  February,  1791,  to  accord 
with  the  date  of  that  to  Moore)  —  he  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Graham  of  Fintry  :  "  Whether  it  is  that 
the  story  of  our  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  has  a 
peculiar  effect  on  the  feelings  of  a  poet,  or 
whether  I  have  in  the  enclosed  ballad  succeeded 
beyond  my  usual  poetic  success,  I  know  not ; 
but  it  has  pleased  me  beyond  any  effort  of  my 
Muse  for  a  good  while  past ;  on  that  account  I 
enclose  it  particularly  to  you."  To  Clarinda 
(in  an  undated  letter)  he  thus  expressed  him- 
self :  "  Such,  my  dearest  Nancy,  were  the 
words  of  the  amiable  but  unfortunate  Mary. 
Misfortune  seems  to  take  a  peculiar  pleasure  in 
darting  her  arrows  against  '  honest  men  and 
bonie  lasses.'  Of  this  you  are  too,  too  just  a 
proof;  but  may  your  future  fate  be  a  bright 


exception  to  the  remark !  "  To  Lady  Con- 
stable the  ode  was  sent  at  the  same  time  that 
he  acknowledged  the  present  of  a  snuff-box, 
the  lid  of  it  inlaid  with  a  miniature  of  Queen 
Mary. 


Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 

On  every  blooming  tree, 
And  spreads  her  sheets  o'  daisies  white 

Out  o'er  the  grassy  lea; 
Now  Phoebus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 

And  glads  the  azure  skies: 
But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 

That  fast  in  durance  lies. 


Now  laverocks  wake  the  merry  morn, 

Aloft  on  dewy  wing; 
The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow'r, 

Makes  woodland  echoes  ring; 
The  mavis  wild  wi'  monie  a  note 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest  : 
In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

Wi'  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 

Ill 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank, 

The  primrose  down  the  brae  ; 
The  hawthorn 's  budding  in  the  glen, 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae  : 
The  meanest  bind  in  fair  Scotland 

May  rove  their  sweets  amang; 
But  I,  the  Queen  of  a'  Scotland 

Maun  lie  in  prison  Strang. 


I  was  the  Queen  o'  bonie  France, 

Where  happy  I  hae  been; 
Fu'  lightly  rase  I  in  the  morn. 

As  blythe  lay  down  at  e'en  : 
And  I  'm  the  sov'reign  of  Scotland, 

And  monie  a  traitor  there; 
Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreign  bands 

And  never-ending  care. 


But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman. 

My  sister  and  my  fae, 
Grim  vengeance  yet  shall  whet  a  sword 

That  thro'  thy  soul  shall  gae  ! 
The  weeping  blood  in  woman's  breast 

Was  never  known  to  thee; 
Nor  th'  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  woe 

Frae  woman's  pitying  e'e. 


TO   ROBERT   GRAHAM   OF   FINTRY,    ESQ. 


8S 


My  son  !  my  son  !  may  kinder  stars 

Upon  thy  fortune  shine; 
And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign, 

That  ne'er  wad  blink  on  mine  ! 
God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother's  faes, 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee; 
And    where    thou    meet'st    thy    mother's 
friend, 

Remember  him  for  me  ! 

VII 

0  !  soon,  to  me,  may  summer  suns 

Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn  ! 
Nae  mair  to  me  the  autumn  winds 

Wave  o'er  the  yellow  corn  ! 
And,  in  the  narrow  house  of  death. 

Let  winter  round  me  rave; 
And  the  next  flow'rs  that  deck  the  spring 

Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave. 


TO    ROBERT    GRAHAM    OF   FIN- 
TRY,   ESQ. 

Bums  first  met  Graham  of  Fintry  at  the 
Duke  of  AthoU's  during-  his  northern  tour  in 
August,  1787 ;  and  in  an  undated  letter  in 
■which  he  refers  to  this,  solicited  his  influence 
in  obtaining-  an  appointment  to  a  division  in 
the  Excise.  In  a  letter  dated  10th  September, 
1788,  he  made  a  special  request  in  regard  to  a 
division  in  the  Ellisland  district,  enclosing  at 
the  same  time  the  poetical  epistle,  Requesting 
a  Favour  (see  post,  p.  140).  Obtaining  the 
division,  he  acknowledged  Fintry's  exertions 
in  the  epistle  on  Receiving  a  Favour  (see  post, 
p.  144);  and  in  an  Election  Ballad,  made  at  the 
close  of  the  contest  for  the  Dumfries  Burghs 
in  1790  (see  post,  p.  162),  he  addressed  bim 
thus : — 

"  Fintry,  my  stay  in  worldly  strife, 
Friend  of  my  Muse,  friend  of  my  life  :  "  — 

a  eulogy  amply  justified  by  Fintry's  consistent 
and  considerate  kindness  to  bim,  through  good 
and  bad  report,  to  the  close  of  bis  life.  The 
present  Epistle  was  sent  6th  October,  1791, 
with  a  letter  in  which  he  describes  it  as  "  a 
sheetful  of  groans,  wrung  from  me  in  my 
elbow-chair,  with  one  unlucky  leg  on  my  stool 
before  me."  There  is  some  poetical  licence  — 
let  us  call  it  so  —  in  this  description ;  not  as 
regards  his  own  condition,  for  he  was  then  con- 
fined to  bis  arm-chair  by  a  bruised  leg,  but 
as  regards  the  Epistle  itself,  for,  with  the  ex- 


ception of  the  introductory  and  closing  lines, 
it  consists  of  two  revised  and  retrenched  frag- 
ments, written  near  three  years  before,  and 
originally  intended,  according  to  his  own  state- 
ment —  which  need  not  be  taken  quite  seri- 
ously —  to  form  part  of  a  PoeCs  Progress. 

Graham  of  Fintry  was  descended  from  Sir 
Robert  Graham  of  Strathcarron  and  Fintry, 
Stirlingshire,  son  of  Sir  William  Graham  of 
Kincardine  by  Mary  Stewart,  daughter  of 
Robert  III.  The  Grahams  acquired  the  lands 
of  Mains  and  of  Lumlethan,  Forfarshire,  in 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  estate  was  then 
named  "Fintry."  The  portion  wth  the  man- 
sion-house was  sold  by  Graham  of  Fintry  — 
at  some  unknown  date,  but  probably  before 
1789  —  to  Sir  James  Stirling ;  and  another 
portion  —  Earl's  Strathdichty  —  in  1789  to 
Mr.  D.  Erskine,  Clerk  to  the  Signet  (by  the 
trustees  of  the  creditors  of  Graham  of  Fintry). 
The  part  sold  to  Sir  James  Stirling  was  bought 
by  Erskine's  trustees  in  1801.  Graham  con- 
tinued to  be  designated  "  of  Fintry;  "  and  the 
name  of  the  estate  was  (according  to  the  con- 
ditions of  sale)  changed  to  Linlathen.  He  died 
10th  January,  1815. 


Late  crippl'd  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg; 

About  to  beg  a  pass  for  leave  to  beg; 

Dull,  listless,  teas'd,  dejected,  and  deprest 

(Nature  is  adverse  to  a  cripple's  rest) ; 

Will  generous  Graham  list  to  his  Poet's 
wail 

(It  soothes  poor  Misery,  hearkening  to  her 
tale), 

And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first  sur- 
vey'd, 

And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming 
trade  ? 

Thou,  Nature  !  partial  Nature  !  I  ar- 
raign ; 

Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I  complain  : 

The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  foimd. 

One  shakes  the  forests,  and  one  spurns  the 
ground ; 

Thou  giv'st  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his 
shell ; 

Th'  envenom 'd  wasp,  victorious,  guards  his 
cell; 

Thy  minions  kings  defend,  control,  devour. 

In  all  th'  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power. 

Foxes  and  statesmen  subtile  wiles  ensure; 

The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  se- 
cure; 

Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with  their 
drug. 


86 


ADDITIONS    IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION    OF    1793 


The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes,  are 

snug; 
Ev'n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts, 
Her  tongue  and  eyes  —  her  dreaded  spear 

and  darts. 

But  O  thou  bitter  step-motlier  and  hard, 
To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked  child  —  the 

Bard! 
A  thing  unteaehable  in  world's  skill, 
And  half  an  idiot  too,  more  helpless  still: 
No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  op'ning  dun, 
No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  to  shun; 
No  horns,   but  those  by  luckless   Hymen 

worn, 
And  those,  alas  !  not  Amalthea's  horn ; 
No  nerves  olfact'rj%  INIammon's  trusty  cur. 
Clad  in  rich  Dulness'  comfortable  fur; 
In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride. 
He  bears  th'   unbroken    blast  from  ev'ry 

side  : 
Vampyre    booksellers    drain    him   to   the 

heart, 
And  scorpion  critics  cureless  venom  dart. 

Critics  —  appall'd,    I    venture    on    the 

name; 
Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of 

fame; 
Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes: 
He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

His   heart   by  causeless  wanton  malice 

wrung, 
By  blockheads'  daring  into  madness  stung; 
His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more 

dear. 
By  miscreants   torn,  who   ne'er  one  sprig 

must  wear; 
Foil'd,   bleeding,   tortur'd   in   th'   unequal 

strife. 
The  hapless  Poet  flounders  on  thro'  life: 
Till,  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom 

fir'd. 
And   fled   each   ]\Iuse   that   glorious   once 

inspir'd. 
Low  sunk  in  squalid,  unprotected  age, 
Dead  even  resentment  for  his  injur'd  page. 
He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthless  crit- 
ic's rage  ! 
So,  by  some  hedge,  the  gen'rous  steed  de- 

ceas'd. 
For   half-starv'd    snarling    curs   a   dainty 

feast, 


By  toil  and  famine  wore  to  skin  and  bone, 
Lies,  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch's  son. 

O  Dulness  !  portion  of  the  truly  blest ! 
Calm  shelter'd  haven  of  eternal  rest  ! 
Thy  sons  ne'er  madden  in  the  fierce  ex- 

tremes 
Of  Fortune's  polar  frost,  or  torrid  beams. 
If  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup. 
With  sober,  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up: 
Conscious   the  bounteous  meed   they  well 

deserve. 
They  only  wonder  "  some  folks "   do  not 

starve. 
The  grave,  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his 

frog. 
And  thinks   the  mallard  a  sad,  worthless 

^^  hen  Disappointment   snaps   the  clue   of 

hope, 
And  thro'   disastrous  night  they  darkling 

grope. 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bear, 
And  just  conclude  "  that  fools  are  fortune's 

care." 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest's  shocks, 
Strong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid 


Not  so  the  idle  Muse's  mad-cap  train; 
Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck 

brain : 
In  equanimity  they  never  dwell; 
By  turns  in  soaring  heav'n  or  vaulted  hell. 

I  dread  thee.  Fate,  relentless  and  se- 
vere, 

With  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's  fear  ! 

Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost: 

Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust 

(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips'd  as  noon  ap- 
pears. 

And  left  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears). 

O,  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  pray'r  ! 

Fintry,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare  ! 

Thro'  a  long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes 
crown. 

And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go 
down  ! 

May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path ; 

Give  energy  to  life;  and  soothe  his  latest 
breath. 

With  many  a  filial  tear  circling  the  bed  of 
death  ! 


LAMENT   FOR   JAMES   EARL   OF   GLENCAIRN 


87 


;    LAMENT   FOR    JAMES    EARL    OF 
i  GLENCAIRN 

James  Cunningham,  fourteenth  Earl  of  Glen- 
caim,  second  son  of  William,  thirteenth  earl, 
and  the  eldest  daughter  of  Hugh  M'Guire,  a 
violinist  in  Ayr,  whose  family  had  been  adopted 
by  Governor  Macrae  of  the  H.  E.  I.  C,  was 
born  in  1749 ;  succeeded  to  the  earldom  in 
1775;  made  the  acquaintance  of  Burns  — 
through  James  Dalrymple  of  Orangefield  — 
in  Edinburgh  in  1786,  and  introduced  him  to 
'  Creech  the  publisher ;  succeeded  in  obtaining 
for  the  Edinburgh  Edition  the  patronage  of 
the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  also  exerted  himself 
to  the  utmost  to  secure  subscriptions  among 
the  nobility ;  used  his  influence  in  getting 
Burns  an  appointment  in  the  Excise,  and  is 
always  referred  to  by  the  poet  in  terms  of  the 
warmest  regard.  Owing  to  ill-health,  he  went 
to  Lisbon  in  1790  to  pass  the  winter  ;  but,  find- 
ing himself  rapidly  failing,  resolved  to  return, 
and  died,  after  landing  at  Falmouth,  30th 
January,  1791.  Learning  of  his  death,  Burns 
wrote  thus  to  his  factor,  Alexander  Dalziel : 
''  Dare  I  trouble  you  to  let  me  know  privately 
before  the  day  of  interment,  that  I  may  cross 
the  country,  and  steal  among  the  crowd,  to 
pay  a  tear  to  the  last  sight  of  my  ever  revered 
benefactor  ?  " 

In  a  letter  to  Glencairn's  sister.  Lady  Eliza- 
beth Cunningham  —  conjecturally  (but  wrong- 
ly) dated  by  Scott  Douglas  "  March,  1791  " 
(it  was  written  not  earlier  than  September, 
and  most  probably  in  October)  —  concerning  a 
copy  of  the  Lament,  "  If,"  he  wrote,  "  among 
my  children  I  shall  have  a  son  that  has  a  heart, 
he  shall  hand  it  down  to  his  child  as  a  family 
honour  and  a  family  debt  that  my  dearest  ex- 
istence I  owe  to  the  noble  heart  of  Glencairn." 
He  named  his  fourth  son  (born  12th  August, 
1794)  "  James  Glencairn  Burns."  On  the  2.'!d 
October  he  sent  a  copy  of  the  poem  to  Lady 
Don  (MS.  now  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh) 
with  this  inscription  :  "  To  Lady  Harriet  Don 
this  poem,  not  the  fictitious  creation  of  poetic 
fancy,  but  the  breathings  of  real  woe  from  a 
bleeding  heart,  is  respectfully  and  gratefully 
presented  by  the  author."  In  the  note  enclos- 
ing it  he  wrote  :  ''  As  all  the  world  knows  my 
obligations  to  the  late  noble  Earl  of  Glencairn, 
I  wish  to  make  my  obligations  equally  con- 
spicuous by  publishing  the  poem.  But  in  what 
way  shall  1  publish  it  ?  It  is  too  small  a  piece 
to  publish  alone.  The  way  which  suggests 
itself  to  me  is  to  send  it  to  the  publisher  of 
one  of  the  most  reputed  periodical  works  — 
The  Bee,  for  instance.  Lady  Betty  has  re- 
ferred me  to  you."  It  did  not  appear  in  The 
Bee. 


The  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills; 

By  fits  the  suu's  departing  beam 
Look'd  on  the  fading  yellow  woods, 

That  wav'd  o'er  Lugar's  winding  stream. 
Beneath  a  craigy  steep  a  Bard, 

Laden  with  years  and  meikle  pain, 
In  loud  lament  bewail'd  his  lord, 

Whom  Death  bad  all  untimely  taen. 


He  lean'd  him  to  an  ancient  aik. 

Whose  trunk  was  mould'ring  down  with 
years; 
His  locks  were  bleached  white  with  time, 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi'  tears; 
And  as  he  touch'd  his  trembling  harp, 

And  as  he  tun'd  bis  doleful  sang, 
The  winds,  lamenting  thro'  their  caves. 

To  echo  bore  the  notes  alaug' :  — 


"  Ye  scatter'd  birds  that  faintly  sing, 

The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire  ! 
Ye  woods  that  shed  on  a'  the  winds 

The  honours  of  the  ag^d  year  ! 
A  few  short  months,  and,  glad  and  gay, 

Again  ye  '11  charm  the  ear  and  e'e; 
But  nocht  in  all  revolving  time 

Can  gladness  bring  again  to  me. 


"  I  am  a  bending  aged  tree. 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and  rain; 
But  now  has  come  a  cruel  blast. 

And  my  last  hold  of  earth  is  gane; 
Nae  leaf  o'  mine  shall  greet  the  spring, 

Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom; 
But  I  maun  lie  before  the  storm, 

And  ithers  plant  them  in  my  room. 


"  I  've  seen  sae  monie  changefu'  years. 

On  earth  I  am  a  stranger  grown  : 
I  wander  in  tlie  ways  of  men, 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknowu  : 
Unheard,  unpitied,  unreliev'd, 

I  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care; 
For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust, 

Lie  a'  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 

VI 

"  And  last  (the  sum  of  a'  my  griefs  !) 
My  noble  master  lies  in  clay; 


88 


ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF   1793 


The  flow'r  amang  our  barons  bold, 

His  country's  pride,  his  country's  stay  : 

In  weary  being  now  I  pine, 
For  a'  the  life  of  life  is  dead. 

And  hope  has  left  my  agkd  ken, 
On  forward  wing  for  ever  fled. 


"  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp  ! 

The  voice  of  woe  and  wild  despair ! 
Awake,  resound  thy  latest  lay. 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 
And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb. 
Accept  this  tribute  from  the  Bard 

Thou   brought   from   Fortune's  inirkest 
gloom. 

VIII 

"  In  Poverty's  low  barren  vale. 

Thick  mists  obscure  involv'd  me  round; 
Though  oft  I  turn'd  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found; 
Tliou  found'st  me,  like  the  morning  sun 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air: 
The  friendless  Bard  and  rustic  song 

Became  alike  thy  fostering  care. 


"  O,  why  has  Worth  so  short  a  date. 

While  villains  ripen  grey  with  time  ! 
Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen'rous,  great. 

Fall  in  bold  manhood's  hardy  prime  ? 
Why  did  I  live  to  see  that  day, 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  woe  ? 
O,  had  I  met  the  mortal  shaft 

Which  laid  my  benefactor  low  ! 


"  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen; 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been; 
The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee; 
But  I  '11  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me!  " 


LINES    TO    SIR   JOHN   WHITE- 
FOORD,   Bart. 

SENT   WITH    THE   FOREGOING  POEM 

Sir   John  Whitefoord   was,  like    Gleucaim, 
the  warm   friend  of   Bums,    who   wrote    The 


Braes  o'  Ballochmyle  {see  post,  p.  225)  in  178o, 
on  the  occasiou  of  the  family's  being  compelled 
to  sell  the  estate  of  that  name. 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever'st. 
Who,   save    thy   mind's   reproach,   nought 

earthly  fear'st, 
To  thee  this  votive  off'ring  I  impart. 
The  tearful  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 
The   Friend   thou   valued'st,  I  the   Patron 

lov'd; 
His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world   ap- 

prov'd: 
We  '11  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has  gone, 
And  tread  the  shadowy  path  to  that  dark 

world  unknown. 


TAM   O'   SHANTER 

A   TALE 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  Buke. 

Gawin  Douglas. 

AUoway  Kirk  was  originally  the  church  of 
the  quoad  civilia  parish  of  Alloway ;  but  this 
parish  having  been  annexed  to  tliat  of  Ayr  in 
1690,  the  church  fell  more  or  less  to  ruin,  and 
when  Burns  wrote  had  been  roofless  for  half 
a  century.  It  stands  some  two  hundred  yards 
to  the  north  of  the  picturesque  Auld  Brig  of 
Doon,  which  dates  from  about  the  beginning 
of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  and  in  Burns's  time 
was  the  sole  means  of  communication  over  the 
steep-banked  Doon  between  Carrick  and  Kyle. 
The  old  road  to  Ayr  ran  west  of  the  Kirk : 
the  more  direct  road  dating  from  the  erection 
of  the  New  Brig  —  a  little  west  of  the  old  one 

—  in  1815. 

Burns's  birthplace  is  about  three  fourths  of 
a  mile  to  the  north  ;  so  that  the  ground  and  its 
legends  were  familiar  to  him  from  the  first. 
Writing  to  Francis  Grose  (first  published  in 
Sir  Egerton  Brydges'  Censura  Literaria,  179B), 

—  ' '  Among  the  many  witch  -  stories  I  have 
heard,"  he  says,  "  relating  to  Alloway  Kirk,  I 
distinctly  remember  only  two  or  three.  Upon 
a  stormy  night,  amid  whistling  squalls  of  wind 
and  bitter  blasts  of  hail  —  in  short,  on  such  a 
night  as  the  devil  would  choose  to  take  the  air 
in  —  a  farmer,  or  farmer's  servant,  was  plod- 
ding and  plashing  homeward  with  his  plough- 
irons  on  his  shoulder,  having  been  getting 
some  repairs  on  them  at  a  neighbouring 
smithy.  His  way  lay  by  the  Kirk  of  Alloway  ;| 
and  being  rather  on  the  anxious  look-out 
approaching  a  place  so  well  known  to  be 
favourite  haunt  of  the  devil,  and  the  devil's 


TAM  O'    SHANTER 


89 


friends  and  emissaries,  he  was  struck  aghast 
hy  discovering',  through  the  horrors  of  the 
storm  and  stormy  night,  a  light,  which  on  his 
nearer  approach  plainly  shewed  itself  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  haunted  edifice.  Whether  he 
had  heen  fortified  from  above  on  his  devout 
supplication,  as  is  customary  with  people  when 
they  suspect  the  immediate  presence  of  Satan, 
or  whether,  according  to  another  custom,  he 
had  got  courageously  drunk  at  the  smithy,  I 
will  not  pretend  to  determine  ;  but  so  it  was, 
that  he  ventured  to  go  up  to,  nay  into,  the 
very  Kirk.  As  luck  would  have  it,  his  temer- 
ity came  off  unpunished.  The  members  of 
the  infernal  junto  were  all  out  on  some  mid- 
night business  or  other,  and  he  saw  nothing 
but  a  kind  of  kettle  or  cauldron,  depending 
from  the  roof,  over  the  fire,  simmering  some 
heads  of  unchristened  children,  limbs  of  exe- 
cuted malefactors,  etc.,  for  the  business  of  the 
night.  It  was,  in  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound 
with  the  honest  ploughman :  so  without  cere- 
mony he  unhooked  the  cauldron  from  the  fire, 
and  pouring  out  the  damnable  ingredients,  in- 
verted it  on  his  head,  and  carried  it  fairly 
home,  where  it  remained  long  in  the  family,  a 
living  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  story.  An- 
other story,  which  I  can  prove  to  be  equally 
authentic,  was  as  follows :  On  a  market-day 
in  the  town  of  Ayr,  a  farmer  from  Carrick, 
and  consequently  whose  way  lay  by  the  very 
gate  of  AUoway  Kirkyard,  in  order  to  cross 
the  river  Doon  at  the  old  bridge,  which  is 
about  two  or  three  hundred  yards  further  on 
than  the  said  gate,  had  been  detained  by  his 
business  till  by  the  time  he  reached  Alloway  it 
was  the  wizard  hour  between  night  and  morn- 
ing. Though  he  was  terrified  with  a  blaze 
streaming  from  the  Kirk,  yet,  as  it  is  a  well- 
known  fact,  that  to  turn  back  on  these  occa- 
sions is  running  by  far  the  greatest  risk  of 
mischief,  he  prudently  advanced  on  his  road. 
When  he  had  reached  the  gate  of  the  Kirk- 
yard, he  was  surprised  and  entertained,  through 
the  ribs  and  arches  of  an  old  Gothic  window, 
which  still  faces  the  highway,  to  see  a  dance 
of  witches  merrily  footing  it  round  their  old 
sooty  blackguard  master,  who  was  keeping 
them  all  alive  with  the  power  of  his  bagpipe. 
The  farmer,  stopping  his  horse  to  observe 
them  a  little,  could  plainly  descry  the  faces 
of  many  old  women  of  his  acquaintance  and 
neighbourhood.  How  the  gentleman  was 
dressed,  tradition  does  not  say,  but  that  the 
ladies  were  all  in  their  smocks  :  and  one  of 
them  happening  unluckily  to  have  a  smock 
which  was  considerably  too  short  to  answer  all 
the  purpose  of  that  piece  of  dress,  oiir  farmer 
was  so  tickled  that  he  involuntarily  burst  out 
with  a  loud  laugh,  'Weel  luppen,  Maggy  wi' 
the  short  sark  I '  and  recollecting  himself,  in- 


stantly spurred  his  horse  to  the  top  of  his 
speed.  I  need  not  mention  the  universally 
known  fact,  that  no  diabolical  power  can  pur- 
sue you  beyond  the  middle  of  a  running  stream. 
Lucky  it  was  for  the  poor  farmer  that  the 
river  Doon  was  so  near,  for  notwithstanding 
the  speed  of  the  horse,  which  was  a  good  one, 
when  he  reached  the  middle  of  the  arch  of  the 
bridge,  and  consequently  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  the  pursuing  vengeful  hags  were  so 
close  at  his  heels  that  one  of  them  actually 
sprang  to  seize  him :  but  it  was  too  late  ;  no- 
thing was  on  her  side  of  the  stream  but  the 
horse's  tail,  which  immediately  gave  way  at 
her  infernal  grip,  as  if  blasted  by  a  stroke  of 
lightning ;  but  the  farmer  was  beyond  her 
reach.  However,  the  unsightly  tailless  con- 
dition of  the  \'igorous  steed  was,  to  the  last 
hour  of  the  noble  creature's  life,  an  awful 
warning  to  the  Carrick  farmers  not  to  stay  too 
late  in  Ayr  markets. 

"  The  last  relation  I  shall  give,  though 
equally  true,  is  not  so  well  identified  as  the 
two  former  with  regard  to  the  scene  ;  but  as 
the  best  authorities  give  it  for  Alloway,  I  shall 
relate  it.  On  a  summer's  evening,  about  the 
time  nature  puts  on  her  sables  to  mourn  the 
expiry  of  the  cheerful  day,  a  shepherd  boy, 
belonging  to  a  farmer  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood of  Alloway  Kirk,  had  just  folded  his 
charge  and  was  returning  home.  As  he  passed 
the  Kirk,  in  the  adjoining  field,  he  fell  in  with 
a  crew  of  men  and  women  who  were  busy 
pulling  stems  of  the  plant  ragT\'ort.  He  ob- 
served that  as  each  person  pulled  a  ragwort, 
he  or  she  got  astride  of  it  and  called  out,  '  Up 
horsie !  '  on  which  the  ragwort  flew  off,  like 
Pegasus,  throtigh  the  air  with  its  rider.  The 
foolish  boy  likewise  pulled  his  ragwort,  and 
cried  with  the  rest,  '  Up  horsie  !  '  and,  strange 
to  tell,  away  he  flew  with  the  company.  The 
first  stage  at  which  the  cavalcade  stopt  was  a 
merchant's  wine-cellar  in  Bordeaux,  where, 
without  saying  by  your  leave,  they  quaffed 
away  at  the  best  the  cellar  could  afford  until 
the  morning,  foe  to  the  imps  and  works  of 
darkness,  threatened  to  throw  light  on  the 
matter,  and  frightened  them  from  their  ca- 
rousals. The  poor  shepherd  lad.  being  equally 
a  stranger  to  the  scene  and  the  liquor,  heed- 
lessly got  himself  drunk ;  and  when  the  rest 
took  horse  he  fell  asleep,  and  was  found  so 
next  day  by  some  of  the  people  belonging  to 
the  merchant.  Somebody  that  understood 
Scotch,  asking  him  what  he  was,  he  said  such 
a  one's  herd  in  Alloway ;  and  by  some  means 
or  other  getting  home  again,  he  lived  long  to 
tell  the  world  the  wondrous  tale." 

[As  a  vehicle  for  narrative,  the  octosyllabic 
couplet,  employed  by  Burns  in  this  piece,  as 
also  in   The   Twa  Dogs,   became   classical  in 


90        ADDITIONS   IN  THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF   1793 


Scotland  through  Barbour's  Bruce  (c.  1375).] 
The  motto  is  the  eighteenth  verse  of  Gavin 
Douglas's  sixth  "Proloug"  {Eneados),  and 
should  read  thus  :  "  Of  browneis  and  of  bogillis 
full  this  buke." 

Probably  Bums  drew  the  suggestion  of  his 
hero,  Tain  o'  iShauter,  from  the  character  and 
adventures  of  Douglas  Graham  —  bom  Cth  Jan- 
uary, 1739,  died  23d  June,  ISll  — son  of  Robert 
Graham,  farmer  at  Douglasto-mi,  tenant  of  the 
farm  of  Shanter  on  the  Carrick  Shore,  and 
owner  of  a  boat  ■which  he  had  named  Tain  o' 
Shanter.  Graham  was  noted  for  his  convivial 
habits,  which  hLs  wife's  ratings  tended  rather 
to  confirm  than  to  eradicate.  Tradition  relates 
that  once,  when  his  long-tailed  grey  mare  had 
waited  even  longer  than  usual  for  her  master 
at  the  tavern  door,  certain  humourists  plucked 
her  tail  to  such  an  extent  as  to  leave  it  little 
better  than  a  stump,  and  that  Graham,  on  his 
attention  being  called  to  its  state  next  morn- 
ing, swore  that  it  had  been  depilated  by  the 
witches  at  Alloway  Kirk  {MS.  Notes  by  D. 
Auld  of  Ayr  in  Edinburgh  University  Li- 
brary). The  prototype  —  if  prototype  there 
were  —  of  Souter  Johnie  is  more  doubtful ;  but 
a  shoemaker  named  John  Davidson  —  bom 
1728,  died  30th  June,  1806  —  did  live  for  some 
time  at  Glenfoot  of  Ardlochan,  near  the  farm 
of  Shanter,  whence  he  removed  to  Kirkoswald. 

In  Alloway  Kirk  and  its  surroundings,  apart 
from  its  uncanny  associations.  Bums  cherished 
a  special  interest.  "When  my  father,"  says 
Gilbert,  "  feued  his  little  property  near  Allo- 
way Kirk  the  wall  of  the  churchyard  had  gone 
to  ruin,  and  cattle  had  free  liberty  of  pastur- 
ing in  it.  My  father  and  two  or  three  other 
neighbours  joined  in  an  application  to  the 
Town  Council  of  Ayr,  who  were  superiors  of 
the  adjoining  land,  for  liberty  to  rebuild  it, 
and  raised  by  subscription  a  sum  for  enclosing 
this  ancient  cemetery  with  a  wall ;  hence  he 
came  to  consider  it  as  his  burial-place,  and  we 
learned  the  reverence  for  it  people  generally 
have  for  the  burial-place  of  their  ancestors." 
When,  therefore.  Burns  met  Captain  Grose  — 
then  on  his  peregrinations  through  Scotland  — 
at  the  house  of  Captain  Riddell,  he  suggested 
a  drawing  of  the  ruin ;  and  "'  the  captain,"  Gil- 
bert says,  ''agreed  to  the  request,  provided 
the  poet  would  furnish  a  witch  story  to  be 
printed  along  with  it."  It  is  probable  that 
Bums  originally  sent  the  stories  told  above  for 
insertion  in  the  work,  and  that  the  narrative 
in  rhyme  was  an  afterthought.  Lockhart,  on 
Cromek's  authority,  accepts  a  statement,  said 
to  have  been  made  by  Mrs.  Bums,  that  the 
piece  was  the  work  of  a  single  day,  and  on 
this  very  slender  evidence  divers  critics  have 
indulged  in  a  vast  amount  of  admiration. 
Buros's   general    dictum   must,    however,    be 


borne  in  mind :  "  All  my  poetry  is  the  effect 
of  easy  composition,  but  of  laborious  correc- 
tion ; "  together  with  his  special  verdict  on 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  (letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  April, 
1791)  that  it  "showed  a  finishing  polish." 
which  he  despaired  of  "ever  excelling."  It 
appeared  in  Grose's  Antiquities  —  published  in 
April,  1791  — the  captain's  indebtedness  being 
thus  acknowledged:  "  To  my  ingenious  friend, 
ilr.  Robert  Bums,  I  have  been  seriou.sly  obli- 
gated :  he  was  not  only  at  the  pains  of  making 
out  what  was  most  worthy  of  notice  in  Ayr- 
shire, the  county  honoured  by  his  birth,  but 
he  also  wrote,  expressly  for  this  work,  the 
pretty  tale  annexed  to  Alloway  Church." 

Ere  Grose's  work  was  before  the  public,  the 
piece  made  its  appearance  in  The  Edinburgh 
Magazine  for  March,  1791;  and  it  was  also 
published  in  The  Edinburgh  Herald  of  18th 
March,  1791. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet; 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 
W^e  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter: 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses). 

O  Tam,  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober; 
That  ilka  melder  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on. 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on; 
That   at   the  Lord's  house,  even  on  Sun- 
day, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied,  that,  late  or  soon. 
Thou   would   be    found   deep   drown'd    in 

Doon, 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk 
By  Alloway's  auld,  haunted  kirk. 


TAM   O'   SHANTER 


91 


Ah  !  gentle  dames,  it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 
,    How  monie  lengthen' d,  sage  advices 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

But  to  our  tale  :  Ae  market-night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  cronie: 

■    Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  very  brither; 

';    They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious 
Wi'  secret  favours,  sweet  and  precious: 
The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus: 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  araang  the  nappy. 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure. 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  ^vi'  pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  blest  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious  ! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread: 

You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed; 

Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for  ever; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race. 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride : 
i     That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key- 
stane, 

That  dreary  hour  Tam  mounts  his  beast  in; 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
i     As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd: 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand. 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

(Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 


Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles   crooning    o'er    some    auld    Scots 

sonnet. 
Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares: 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak  's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Vv'hare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll : 
When,     glimmering    thro'     the    groaning 

trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze. 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing. 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn, 
W^hat  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  ! 
Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquabae,  we  '11  face  the  Devil  ! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle. 
But  Maggie  stood,  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd. 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  vow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight  ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance: 
Nae  cotillion,  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 
There  sat  Auld  Xick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  tousie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge: 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And,  by  some  devilish  eantraip  sleight. 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light: 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 


92         ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH    EDITION   OF    1793 


To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes,  in  gibbet-airns; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns; 
A  thief  new-cutted  frae  a  rape  — 
Wi'  his  hist  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks  wi'  bluid  red-rusted; 
Five  scymitars  wi'  murder  crusted; 
A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled; 
A  knife  a  father's  throat  had  mangled  — 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft  — 
The  grey-hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 
Wi'  niair  of  horrible  and  awefu', 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  uulawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd,  and  curious, 
The   mirth   and  fun  grew  fast  and   furi- 
ous; 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew. 
They   reel'd,  they   set,  they   cross'd,  they 

cleekit. 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  diiddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now   Tarn,    O     Tam  !   had    thae    been 
queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  ! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen  !  — 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdies 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies  ! 

But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Louping  and  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  did  na  turn  thy  stomach  ! 

But  Tam  kend  what  was  what  fu'  braw- 
lie: 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  wawlie. 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
Lang  after  kend  on  Carrick  shore 
(For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
An'  perish'd  monie  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear). 
Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn. 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty. 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  little  kend  thy  reverend  grannie, 


That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('t  was  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grae'd  a  dance  of  witches  ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power: 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  tiang 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  Strang), 
And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  be  witch 'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd ; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain. 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main; 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out:  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  !  " 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  "  Catch  the  thief  !  "  resounds  aloud: 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skriech  and  hollo. 

Ah,   Tam  !    ah,   Tam  !   thou  '11  get  thy 
fairin  ! 
In  hell  they  '11  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig; 
There,  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross  ! 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ; 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  ! 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man,  and  mother's  son,  take  heed: 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty  sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think  !  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear: 
Remember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON 


93 


ON  SEEING  A  WOUNDED  HARE 
LIMP  BY  ME  WHICH  A  FEL- 
LOW  HAD    JUST   SHOT   AT 

On  21st  April,  1789,  Burns  enclosed  a  copy  of 
this  production  in  an  unpublished  letter  to 
Mrs.  Dunlop :  "Two  mornings  ago,  as  I  was 
at  a  very  early  hour  sowing  in  the  fields,  I 
heard  a  shot,  and  presently  a  poor  little  hare 
limped  by  me  apparently  very  much  hurt. 
You  will  easily  guess  this  set  my  humanity  in 
tears  and  my  indignation  in  arms.  The  follow- 
ing was  the  result,  which  please  read  to  the 
young  ladies.  I  believe  you  may  include  the 
Major  too,  as  whatever  I  have  said  of  sliooting 
hares  I  have  not  spoken  one  irreverent  word 
against  coursing  them.  This  is  according  to 
your  just  right  the  very  first  copy  I  wrote." 
Enclosing  a  draft  to  Alexander  Cunningham, 
4th  May,  1789  (in  a  letter  only  partly  published 
in  any  collection  of  the  Correspondence),  Burns, 
after  a  somewhat  similar  account  of  the  inci- 
dent, added  :  "  You  will  guess  my  indignation 
at  the  inhuman  fellow  who  could  shoot  a  hare 
at  this  season,  when  all  of  them  have  young 
ones ;  and  it  gave  me  no  little  gloomy  satisfac- 
tion to  see  the  poor  injured  creature  escape  him." 

On  2d  June,  1789,  Dr.  Gregory  sent  to 
Burns  a  somewhat  supercilious  criticism,  which 
induced  him  (however)  to  change  one  or  two 
expressions  for  the  better.  Regarding  the 
measure  Dr.  Gregory  remarked  that  it  was 
"  not  a  good  one ;  "  that  it  did  not  "  flow 
well ;  "  and  that  the  rhyme  of  the  fourth  line 
was  ' '  almost  lost  by  its  distance  from  the  first, 
and  the  two  interposed  close  rhymes  :  "  hence, 
"  Dr.  Gregory  is  a  good  man,  but  he  crucifies 
me "  (R.  B.).  Burns's  use  of  his  stanza  is 
groping  and  tentative  ;  and  the  effect  of  his 
piece  is  one  of  mere  frigidity. 


Inhuman  man  !   curse   on   thy  barb'rous 
art, 

And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye; 

May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh. 
Nor  never  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart  ! 


Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of   the  wood  and 
field, 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  ! 
No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  ver- 
dant plains 
To  thee  shall   home,  or  food,  or  pastime 
yield. 


Ill 

Seek,    mangled    wretch,     some     place   of 
wonted  rest, 
No   more  of   rest,    but   now   thy   dying 

bed! 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy 
head, 
The   cold   earth   with    thy   bloody   bosom 
prest. 


Oft  as  by  winding  Nith  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I  '11   miss   thee    sporting   o'er  the  dewy 
lawn, 
And   curse   the    ruffian's   aim,  and  mourn 
thy  hapless  fate. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SHADE  OF 
THOMSON 

ON  CROWNING  HIS  BUST  AT  EDNAM, 
ROXBURGHSHIRE,  WITH  A  WREATH 
OF   BAYS 

When,  in  1791,  the  eccentric  Earl  of  Bu- 
chan  instituted  an  annual  festival  in  commem- 
oration of  James  Thomson,  by  crowning,  with 
a  wreath  of  bays,  a  bust  of  the  poet  surmount- 
ing the  Ionic  temple  erected  in  his  honour  on 
the  grounds  in  Dryburgh,  he  sent  an  invitation 
to  Burns  and  suggested  that  he  might  com- 
pose an  ode.  Burns  was  harvesting,  and  must 
needs  decline  ;  but,  in  regard  to  the  second  half 
of  the  invitation,  he  (29th  August,  1791)  wrote 
as  follows :  "  Your  lordship  hints  at  an  ode 
for  the  occasion  ;  but  who  would  write  after 
Collins  ?  I  read  over  his  verses  to  the  memory 
of  Thomson  and  despaired.  I  attempted  three 
or  four  stanzas,  in  the  way  of  address  to  the 
shade  of  the  Bard,  on  crowning  his  bust.  I 
trouble  your  lordship  with  the  enclosed  copy 
of  them,  which,  I  am  afraid,  will  be  but  too 
convincing  a  proof  how  unequal  I  am  to  the 
task  you  would  obligingly  assign  me."  The 
piece  is  closely  modelled  upon  Collins's  ode. 


While  virgin  Spring  by  Eden's  flood 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green. 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 
Or  tunes  Eolian  strains  between; 


94        ADDITIONS    IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF    1793 


While  Summer,  with  a  matron  grace, 
Retreats  to  Dryburgh's  cooliug  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spikey  blade: 


While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 
By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head. 

And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind. 
Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed: 


While  maniac  Winter  rages  o'er 

The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 

Rousing  the  tux'bid  torrent's  roar. 

Or  sweeping,  wild,  a  waste  of  snows  : 


So  long,  sweet  Poet  of  the  year  ! 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  has 
won; 
While  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear. 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


ON  THE  LATE  CAPTAIN 
GROSE'S  PEREGRINATIONS 
THRO'   SCOTLAND 

COLLECTING    THE    ANTIQUITIES    OF 
THAT   KINGDOM 

The  son  of  Francis  Grose,  a  Swiss,  who  had 
settled  as  a  jeweller  at  Richmond,  Surrey, 
Francis  Grose  was  bom  at  Greenford,  Middle- 
sex, about  ITol ;  was  educated  as  an  artist, 
and  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  ;  in  ITDo 
became  Richmond  Herald  ;  was  made  Adju- 
tant in  the  Hampshire,  and  latterly  Captain 
and  Adjutant  in  the  Surrey  militias  ;  published 
Antiquities  of  England  and  Wales,  1773-1787  ; 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Bums  during  his  an- 
tiquarian tour  in  Scotland  in  1789  (see  ante, 
p.  90,  headnote  to  Tam  o'  Shanter)  ;  published 
Antiquities  of  Scotland,  1789-1791 ;  was  au- 
thor of  many  treatises  in  difPerent  branches 
of  antiquarian  lore,  as  well  as  various  miscel- 
laneous works  —  among  them  an  excellent 
Dictionary  of  the  Vulgar  Tongue  (1785) ;  and 
died  (of  apoplexy)  12th  May,  1791.  His  re- 
markable corpulence  is  suggested  in  the  Epi- 
gram on  Captain  Francis  Grose  (see  post,  p.  186); 
and  his  wanderings  are  further  denoted  in  the 


lively  verses  beginning  "  Ken  ye  ought  o'  Cap- 
tain Grose  ?  "  (p.  122).  He  had  his  own  share 
of  humour,  and  was  an  "  inimitable  boon  com 
panion." 


Hear,  Land  o'  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots 
Frae  Maidenkirk  to  Johnie  Groat's, 
If  there  's  a  hole  in  a'  your  coats, 

I  rede  you  tent  it: 
A  chield  's  amang  you  takin  notes. 

And  faith  he  '11  prent  it: 


If  in  your  bounds  ye  chance  to  light 
Upon  a  fine,  fat,  fodgel  wight, 
O'  stature  short  but  genius  bright. 

That 's  he,  mark  weel: 
And  wow  !  he  has  an  unco  sleight 

O'  cauk  and  keel. 


By  some  auld,  houlet-haunted  biggin. 

Or  kirk  deserted  hj  its  riggin, 

It  's  ten  to  ane  ye  '11  find  him  snug  in 

Some  eldritch  part, 
Wi'  deils,  they  say.  Lord  safe  's  !  colleaguin 

At  some  black  art. 

IV 

Ilk  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha'  or  ehamer. 
Ye  gipsy-gang  that  deal  in  glamour. 
And  you,  deep-read  in  hell's  black  gram- 
mar, 

Warlocks  and  witches: 
Ye  '11  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer, 

Ye  midnight  bitches  ! 


It 's  tatdd  he  was  a  sodger  bred, 
And  ane  wad  rather  fa'n  than  fled; 
But  now  he  's  quat  the  spurtle-blade 

And  dog-skin  wallet, 
And  taen  the —  Antiquarian  trade, 

I  think  they  call  it. 


He  has  a  fouth  o'  auld  nick-nackets : 
Rusty  airn  caps  and  jinglin  jackets 
Wad  baud  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets 

A  towinont  guid; 
And  parritch-pats  and  auld  saut-backets 

Before  the  riood. 


SONG:    ANNA,    THY    CHARMS 


95 


Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  shower  ! 

VII 

Never  Boreas'  hoary  path, 

Of  Eve's  first  fire  he  has  a  cinder; 

Never  Eurus'  pois'nous  breath. 

Auld  Tubalcain's  fire-shool  and  fender; 

Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 

That  which  distinguished  the  geudex- 

Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights  ! 

0'  Balaam's  ass: 

Never,  never  reptile  thief 

A  broomstick  o'  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf  ! 

Weel  shod  wi'  brass. 

Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 

VIII 

Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew  ! 

Forbye,  he  '11  shape  you  aff  f u'  gleg 

The  cut  of  Adam's  philibeg; 

The  knife  that  nicket  Abel's  craig 

He  'U  prove  you  fully, 
It  was  a  faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  lang-kail  giillie. 


But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee  — 
For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he  — 
Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 

Guid  fellows  wi'  him; 
And  port,  O  port  !   shine  thou  a  wee, 

And  then  ye  '11  see  him  ! 


Now,  by  the  Pow'rs  o'  verse  and  prose  ! 
Thou  art  a  dainty  chield,  O  Grose  !  — 
Whae'er  o'  thee  shall  ill  suppose, 

They  sair  misca'  thee; 
I  'd  take  the  rascal  by  the  nose, 

Wad  say, "  Shame  fa'  thee." 


TO   MISS    CRUICKSHANK 


A   VERY   YOUXG   LADY 

WRITTEN    ON    THE    BLANK   LEAF   OF   A    BOOK 
PRESENTED   TO   HER   BY   THE   AUTHOR 

Miss  Jane  Cruickshank,  to  whom  these  lines 
were  addressed,  was  the  daughter  of  the  poet's 
friend,  Mr.  William  Cruickshank,  of  the  High 
School,  Edinburgh,  and  was  then  about  twelve 
or  thirteen  years  old.  In  June,  1804,  she  mar- 
ried James  Henderson,  writer,  of  Jedburgh. 
She  also  inspired  A  Bosebud  by  my  Early 
Walk.  The  present  piece  appears  to  liave  been 
■written  under  the  inspiration  of  "  Namby- 
Pamhy  "  Phillips  {d.  1749). 

Beauteous  Rosebud,  young  and  gay, 
Blooming  on  thy  early  May, 
Never  may'st  thou,  lovely  flower, 


May'st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem. 
Richly  deck  thy  native  stem; 
Till  some  ev'ning,  sober,  calm. 
Dropping  dews  and  breathing  balm, 
While  all  around  the  woodland  rings, 
And  ev'ry  bird  thy  requiem  sings. 
Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound. 
Shed  thy  dying  honours  round. 
And  resign  to  parent  Earth 
The  loveliest  form  she  e'er  gave  birtlv 


SONG  :  ANNA,  THY   CHARMS 

Scott  Douglas,  on  plausible  evidence,  con- 
jectured that  this  song  referred  to  a  sweetheart 
of  Alexander  Cunningham,  and  that  it  was  a 
"  vicarious  effusion."  His  conjecture  can  now 
be  fully  substantiated.  In  an  unpublished  part 
of  a  letter  to  Cunningham,  4th  May,  1789,  Burns 
wrote :  "  The  publisher  of  The  Star  has  been 
polite.  He  may  find  his  account  for  it,  though 
I  would  scorn  to  put  my  name  to  a  newspaper 
poem  —  one  instance,  indeed,  excepted.  I  mean 
your  two  stanzas.  Had  the  lady  kept  her  char- 
acter she  should  have  kept  my  verses  ;  but  as 
she  has  prostituted  the  one  [by  marrying  in 
January,  1789],  and  no  longer  made  anything  of 
the  other ;  so  sent  them  to  Stuart  as  a  bribe  in 
my  earnestness  to  be  cleared  from  the  foul  as- 
persions respecting  the  D of  G "  [Duch- 
ess of  Gordon].  The  piece  appeared  in  Stuart's 
Star,  ISth  April,  1789.  Burns  also  enclosed  a 
copy  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  :  "The  following  is  a 
jeu  d'eqjrit  of  t'  other  day  on  a  despairing  lover 
leading  me  to  see  his  Dulcinea." 


Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire. 
And  waste  my  soul  ■with  care; 

But  ah  !  how  bootless  to  admire 
AVhen  fated  to  despair ! 


Yet  in  thy  presence,  lovely  Fair, 
To  hope  may  be  forgiven; 


96         ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF    1793 


For  sure  't  were  impious  to  despair 
So  much  in  sight  of  Heaveu. 


ON  READING  IN  A  NEWSPAPER 
THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M'LEOD, 
ESQ. 

BROTHER  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  A  PARTIC- 
ULAR FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S 

Bums  made  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Isa- 
bella M'Leod  during  his  first  visit  to  Edinburgh. 
Her  brother,  John  M'Leod  of  Rasaj'  —  the 
representative  of  the  main  Lewis  branch  of  the 
clan  —  died  20th  July,  1787.  In  reference  to 
other  misfortunes  of  the  family  Burns  -wrote 
his  Having  Winds  around  her  Blowing.  In  a 
MS.  note,  "  This  poetic  compliment,"  he  says, 
"  what  few  poetic  compliments  are,  was  from 
the  heart." 


Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 

And  rueful  thy  alarms: 
Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 

From  Isabella's  arms. 

II 

Sweetly  deckt  with  pearly  dew 
The  morning  rose  may  blow; 

But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 
May  lay  its  beauties  low. 


Fair  on  Isabella's  morn 
The  sun  propitious  smil'd; 

But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 
Succeeding  hopes  beguil'd. 


Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom-chords 
That  Nature  finest  strung: 

So  Isabella's  heart  was  form'd, 
And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 


Dread  Omnipotence  alone 

Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave  — 

Can  point  the  brimful,  grief-worn  eyes 
To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

VI 

Virtue's  blossoms  there  shall  blow, 
And  fear  no  withering  blast; 


There  Isabella's  spotless  worth 
Shall  happy  be  at  last. 


THE    HUMBLE    PETITION    OF 
BRUAR    WATER 

TO  THE  NOBLE  DUKE  OF  ATHOLE 

Bums  spent  two  days  with  the  family  of 
the  Duke  of  Atholl  during  his  northern  tour 
in  August,  1787 ;  and  in  the  Glenriddell  Book, 
in  which  the  Humble  Petition  is  inscribed,  he 
wrote :  "  God,  who  knows  all  things,  knows 
how  my  heart  aches  with  the  throes  of  grati- 
tude, whenever  I  recollect  my  reception  at  the 
noble  house  of  Atholl."  In  a  letter  to  Pro- 
fessor Josiah  Walker,  enclosing  the  poem,  he 
stated  that  "  it  was,  at  least  the  most  part  of 
it,  the  effusion  of  a  half  hour  "  at  Bruar.  But, 
he  adds,  "  I  do  not  mean  it  was  extempore,  for 
I  have  endeavoured  to  brush  it  up  as  well  as 
Mr.  Nicoll's  chat  and  the  jogging  of  the  chaise 
would  allow." 


My  lord,  I  know,  your  noble  ear 

Woe  ne'er  assails  in  vain; 
Embolden'd  thus,  I  beg  you  '11  hear 

Your  humble  slave  complain. 
How  saucy  Phoebus'  scorching  beams. 

In  flaming  summer-pride, 
Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams, 

And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 


The  lightly-jumping,  glowrin  trouts, 

That  thro'  my  waters  play, 
If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray; 
If,  hapless  chance!  they  linger  lang, 

I  'm  scorching  up  so  shallow, 
They  're  left  the  whitening  stanes  amang 

In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 


Last  day  I  grat  wi'  spite  and  teen. 

As  Poet  Burns  came  by, 
That,  to  a  Bard,  I  should  be  seen 

Wi'  half  my  channel  dry; 
A  panegyric  rhj'me,  I  ween, 

Ev'n  as  I  was,  he  shor'd  me; 
But  had  I  in  my  glory  been, 

He,  kneeling,  wad  ador'd  me. 


ON   SCARING   SOME   WATERFOWL   IN   LOCH   TURIT 


97 


Here,  foaming  down  the  skelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I  rin ; 
There  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes, 

Wild-roaring  o'er  a  linn: 
Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well, 

As  Nature  gave  them  me, 
I  am,  altho'  I  say  't  mysel, 

Worth  eaun  a  mile  to  see. 


Would,  then,  my  noble  master  please 

To  grant  my  highest  wishes. 
He  '11  shade  my  banks  wi'  tow'ring  trees 

And  bonie  spreading  bushes. 
Delighted  doubly  then,  my  lord, 

You  '11  wander  on  my  banks. 
And  listen  nionie  a  grateful  bird 

Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 


The  sober  laverock,  warbling  wild, 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire ; 
The  gowdspink.  Music's  gayest  child, 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir; 
The  blackbird  strong,  the  liutwhite  clear, 

The  mavis  mild  and  mellow, 
The  robin,  pensive  Autumn  cheer 

In  all  her  locks  of  yellow. 


This,  too,  a  covert  shall  ensure 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm; 
And  coward  maukin  sleep  secure, 

Low  in  her  grassy  form : 
Here  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  seat 

To  weave  his  crown  of  flow'rs; 
Or  find  a  shelt'ring,  safe  retreat 

From  prone-descending  show'rs. 


And  here,  by  sweet,  endearing  stealth. 

Shall  meet  the  loving  pair. 
Despising  worlds  with  all  their  wealth. 

As  empty  idle  care: 
The  flow'rs  shall  vie,  in  all  their  charms. 

The  hour  of  heav'n  to  grace; 
And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 


Here  haply  too,  at  vernal  dawn. 
Some  musing  Bard  may  stray, 
And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn 


And  misty  mountain  grey; 
Or,  by  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 

Mild-chequering  thro'  the  trees. 
Rave  to  my  darkly  dashing  stream, 

Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 


Let  lofty  firs  and  ashes  cool 

My  lowly  banks  o'erspread. 
And  view,  deep-bending  in  the  pool. 

Their  shadows'  wat'ry  bed: 
Let  fragrant  birks,  in  woodbines  drest, 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn, 
And,  for  the  little  songster's  nest, 

The  close  embow'ring  thorn  ! 


So  may,  old  Scotia's  darling  hope, 

Your  little  angel  band 
Spring,  like  their  fathers,  up  to  prop 

Their  honour'd  native  land  ! 
So  may,  thro'  Albion's  farthest  ken. 

To  social-flowing  glasses. 
The  grace  be  :  "  Athole's  honest  men 

And  Athole's  bonie  lasses  ! " 


ON    SCARING   SOME   WATER- 
FOWL  IN    LOCH   TURIT 

A    WILD   SCENE   AMONG   THE    HILLS    OF 
OUGHTERTYRE 

Thus  presented  in  the  Glenriddell  Book  MS. 
"This  was  the  production  of  a  solitary  fore- 
noon's walk  from  Ong'htertyre  House.  I  lived 
there,  the  guest  of  Sir  William  Murray,  for  two 
or  three  weeks  [October,  17ST],  and  was  much 
flattered  by  my  hospitable  recei^tion.  What  a 
pity  that  the  mere  emotions  of  gratitude  are  so 
impotent  in  this  world !  'T  is  lucky  that,  as 
we  are  told,  they  will  be  of  some  avail  in  the 
world  to  come." 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake. 
For  me  your  wat'ry  haunt  forsake  ? 
Tell  me,  fellow  creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  tluis  you  fly  ? 
Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ?  — 
Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 
Nature's  gifts  to  all  are  free: 
Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave; 


98        ADDITIONS   IN  THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION  OF   1793 


Or,  beneath  the  sheltering  rock, 
Bide  the  surging  billow's  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace. 
Man,  your  proud,  usurping  foe. 
Would  be  lord  of  all  below: 
Plumes  himself  in  freedom's  pride, 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow 
Marking  you  his  prey  below, 
In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells. 
Strong  necessity  compels: 
But  Man,  to  whom  alone  is  giv'n 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  Heav'n, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane  — 
And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain  ! 

In  these  savage,  liquid  plains. 
Only  known  to  wand'ring  swains. 
Where  the  mossy  riv'let  strays 
Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways, 
AH  on  Nature  you  depend. 
And  life's  poor  season  peaceful  spend. 

Or,  if  Man's  superior  might 
Dare  invade  your  native  right. 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 
Man  with  all  his  powers  you  scorn; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 
Other  lakes,  and  other  springs; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 
Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


VERSES    WRITTEN    WITH    A 
PENCIL 

OVER  THE  CHIMNEY-PIECE,  IN  THE  PAR- 
LOUR OF  THE  INN  AT  KENMORE,  TAY- 
MOUTH 

Burns  visited  Ta^Tnouth  on  29th  August, 
1787.  The  piece  is  inscribed  in  the  Glenridddl 
Hook  rn  the  hand  of  an  amanuensis,  with  the 
following  note  by  Bums:  "  I  wrote  this  with 
a  pencil  over  the  chimney-piece  in  the  parlour 
of  the  inn  at  Kenmore,  at  the  outlet  of  Loch 
Tay." 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 
These   northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I 

trace ; 
O'er  many  a  winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 


Th'    abodes   of  covey'd  grouse  and  timid 

sheep, 
My  savage  journey,  curious,  I  pursue. 
Till  fam'd  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. 
The   meeting   cliffs   each   deep-sunk   glen 

divides: 
The    woods,   wild-scatter'd,    clothe    their 

ample  sides; 
Th'  outstretching  lake,  imbosomed  'mong 

the  hills. 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills: 
The  Tay  nieand'ring  sweet  in  infant  pride, 
The  palace  rising  on  his  verdant  side, 
The  lawns  wood-fring'd  in  Nature's  native 

taste. 
The   hillocks   dropt    in   Nature's   careless 

haste. 
The    arches   striding    o'er    the     new-born 

stream. 
The    village    glittering    in    the    noontide 

beam  — 

Poetic  ardors  in  my  bosom  swell. 
Lone  wand'ring  by  the  hermit's  mossy  cell; 
The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods, 
Th'    incessant   roar  of  headlong  tumbling 
floods  — 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  heav'n-taught 

lyre. 
And   look   through   Nature  with   creative 

fire; 
Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  Fate  half  reconcil'd. 
Misfortune's  lighten'd  steps  might  wander 

wild ; 
And  Disapjjointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds, 
Find    balm    to    soothe    her  bitter  rankling 

wounds ; 
Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heav'n  ward 

stretch  her  scan, 
And  injur'd  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 


LINES  ON  THE  FALL  OF  FYERS 
NEAR  LOCH  NESS 

WRITTEN   WITH    A   PENCIL   ON   THE   SPOT 

Burns  visited  the  Fall  of  Foyers  on  5tli 
September,  l~f<l.  In  a  note  in  the  Glenrid-{ 
dell  Book,  where  the  poem  is  inscribed  bj 
an  amanuensis,  *' I  composed  these  lines,"  he 
wrote,  "  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  hideou 
cauldron  below  the  waterfall." 


THE   WHISTLE 


99 


Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods 
The  roaring  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods; 
Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 
Where,  thro'  a  shapeless  breach,  his  stream 

resounds. 
As  high  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 
As  deep  recoiling  surges  foam  below, 
Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet 

descends, 
And  viewless  Echo's  ear,  astonish'd,  rends. 
Dim-seen  through  rising  mists  and  cease- 
less show'rs. 
The  hoary  cavern,  wide-surrounding,  lours : 
Still    thro'    the   gap   the   struggling   river 

toils, 
And  still,  below,  the  horrid  caldron  boils  — 


ON   THE    BIRTH    OF  A  POSTHU- 
MOUS   CHILD 

BORN   IN   PECULIAR    CIRCUMSTANCES 
OF   FAMILY   DISTRESS 

In  the  Glenriddell  Book  —  where  the  poem 
is  inscribed  —  Burns  explains  that  it  is  "  on 
the  birth  of  Mons.  Henri,  posthumous  child  to 
a  Mons.  Henri,  a  g'entleman  of  family  and 
fortune  from  Switzerland  ;  who  died  in  three 
days'  illness,  leaving-  his  lady,  a  sister  of  Sir 
Thomas  Wallace,  in  her  sixth  month  of  tliis 
her  first  child.  The  lady  and  her  family  were 
particular  friends  of  the  author  (she  was  a 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Dunlop).  The  child  was 
bom  in  November,  '90."  On  receiving  the 
news  of  the  birth  Bums  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dunlop : 
"  How  could  such  a  mercurial  creature  as  a 
poet  lumpishly  keep  his  seat  on  receipt  of  the 
best  news  from  his  best  friend  ?  I  seized  my 
gilt-headed  Wangee  rod  —  an  instrument  indis- 
pensably necessary  —  in  my  left  hand,  in  the 
moment  of  inspiration  and  rapture  ;  and  stride, 
stride  —  quick  and  quicker — out  skipt  I 
among  the  broomy  banks  of  Nith  to  muse  over 
""ly  joy  by  retail.  To  keep  within  the  bounds 
of  prose  was  impossible.  ...  I,  almost  extem- 
pore, poured  out  to  him  in  the  following- 
verses." 


Sweet  flow'ret,  pledge  o'  meikle  love, 
And  ward  o'  monie  a  prayer, 

what  heart  o'  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 
Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair  ! 


November  hirples  o'er  the  lea, 
Chill,  on  thy  lovely  form; 

And  gane,  alas  !  the  shelt'ring  tree, 
Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 


May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour, 
And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw. 

Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  show'r, 
The  bitter  frost  and  snaw  ! 


May  He,  the  friend  of  Woe  and  Want, 
Who  heals  life's  various  stounds. 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother  plant. 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds  ! 


But  late  she  flourish'd,  rooted  fast, 
Fair  on  the  summer  morn. 

Now  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 
Unshelter'd  and  forlorn. 


Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 
Unscath'd  by  ruffian  hand  ! 

And  from  thee  many  a  parent  stem 
Arise  to  deck  our  land  ! 


THE   WHISTLE 

A    BALLAD 

Thus  prefaced  by  Burns  :  "  As  the  axithen- 
tic  Prose  history  of  the  AVhistle  is  curious,  I 
shall  here  give  it.  In  the  train  of  Anne  of 
Denmark,  when  she  came  to  Scotland  with  our 
James  the  Sixth,  there  came  over  also  a  Danish 
gentleman  of  gigantic  stature  and  great  prow- 
ess, and  a  matchless  champion  of  Bacchus.  He 
had  a  little  ebony  Whistle,  which,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  orgies,  he  laid  on  the  table  ; 
and  whoever  was  last  able  to  blow  it,  every- 
body else  being  disabled  by  the  potency  of  the 
bottle,  was  to  carry  off  the  Whistle,  as  a  trophy 
of  victory.  The  Dane  produced  credentials  of 
his  victories,  without  a  single  defeat,  at  the 
courts  of  Copenhagen,  Stockholm,  Moscow, 
Warsaw,  and  several  of  the  petty  courts  in 
Germany  ;  and  challenged  the  Scots  Baccha- 
nalians to  the  alternative  of  trying  his  prow- 
ess, or  else  of  acknowledging  their  inferiority. 
After   many    overthrows    on   the  part  of   the 


loo       ADDITIONS   IN   THE   EDINBURGH   EDITION   OF   1793 


Scots,  the  Dane  was  encountered  by  Sir  Robert 
Laurie  of  Maxwelton,  ancestor  to  the  present 
■worthy  baronet  of  that  name  ;  who,  after  three 
days  and  three  nights'  hard  contest,  left  the 
Scandinavian  under  the  table,  '  and  blew  on 
the  Whistle  his  requiem  shrill.' 

"  Sir  Walter,  son  to  Sir  Robert  before  men- 
tioned, afterwards  lost  the  Whistle  to  Walter 
Riddell  of  Glenriddell,  who  had  married  a 
sister  of  Sir  Walter's.  On  Friday,  the  16th 
October,  1790,  at  Friars-Carse,  the  Whistle  was 
once  more  contended  for,  as  related  in  the 
BaUad,  by  the  present  Sir  Robert  Laurie  of 
Maxwelton  ;  Robert  Riddell,  Esq.,  of  Glenrid- 
dell, lineal  descendant  and  representative  of 
Walter  Riddell,  who  won  the  Whistle,  and  in 
whose  family  it  had  continued ;  and  Alexan- 
der Ferguson,  Esq.,  of  Craigdarroch,  likewise 
descended  of  the  great  Sir  Robert,  which  last 
gentleman  carried  off  the  hard-won  honors  of 
the  field." 

In  this  Prefatory  Note  Bums  misdates  the 
contest  by  a  year,  as  is  proved  by  (1)  the  date 
of  a  letter — 16th  October,  1789  —  to  Captain 
Riddell,  in  which  he  refers  to  the  contest  of 
the  evening  ;  and  (2)  by  the  memorandum  of 
the  '■  Bett,"  now  in  the  possession  of  Sir  Robert 
Jardine  of  CastlemUk,  first  published  in  Notes 
and  Queries,  Second  Series,  vol.  x.  (1860),  p. 
423:  — 

DOQUET 

The  original  Bett  between  Sir  Robert  Laurie  and 
Craigdarroch,  for  the  noted  Whistle,  which  is  so  much 
celebrated  by  Robert  Bums'  Poems  —  in  which  Bett  I 
was  named  Judge  —  1789. 

The  Bett  decided  at  Carse  —  16th  October,  1789. 

Won  by  Craigdarroch  —  he  drank  upds.  of  5  Bottles 
of  Claret. 

MEMORANDUM  FOR  THE  WHISTLE 

The  Whistle  gained  by  Sir  Robert  Laurie  (now)  in 
possession  of  Mr.  Riddell  of  Glenriddell,  is  to  be  ascer- 
tained to  the  heirs  of  the  said  Sir  Robert  now  existing, 
being  Sir  R.  L.,  Mr.  R.  of  G.,  and  Mr.  F.  of  C.  —  tobe 
settled  under  the  arbitration  of  Mr.  Jn.  M'Murdo  :  the 
business  to  be  decided  at  Carse,  the  16th  of  October, 
1789. 

(Signed)        Alex.  Feeguson. 

R.  LAimiE. 

RoBT.  Riddell. 
COWHILL,  lOth  OcUber,  1789. 

John  51'Murdo  accepts  as  Judge. 
Geo.  Johnston  witness,  to  be  present. 
Patrick  Miller  witness,  to  be  pre.  if  possible. 

Minute  of  Bett  between  Sir  Robert  Laurie  and 
Craigdarroch,  1789. 

The  question  whether  or  not  Bums  was 
present  has  been  hotly  debated.  The  refer- 
ences in  his  letter  on  the  day  of  the  fight,  as 
well  as  the  terms  of  the  "  Bett,"  seem  to  show 


that,  tradition  notwithstanding,  he  was  not.  But 
there  are  no  data  for  an  absolute  conclusion.  For 
the  stanza,  see  ante,  p.  79,  Prefatory  Note  to 
No  Churchman  Am  I. 


I  SING  of  a  Whistle,  a  Whistle  of  worth, 
I  sing  of  a  AVhistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 
Was   brought   to   the   court   of   our  good 

Scottish  King, 
And   long  with  this  Whistle  all  Scotland 

shall  ring. 


Old  Loda,  still  rueing  the  arm  of  Fingal, 

The  God  of  the  Bottle  sends  down  from 
his  hall: 

"  This  Whistle  's  your  challenge,  to  Scot- 
land get  o'er, 

And  drink  them  to  Hell,  Sir  !  or  ne'er  see 


Old  poets    have   sung,  and  old  chronicles 

tell. 
What  champions  ventur'd,  what  champions 

fell: 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still. 
And  blew  on  the  Whistle   their  requiem 

shrill. 


Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the 

Scaur, 
Unmatch'd  at  the   bottle,  unconquer'd   in 

war. 
He  drank  his  poor  god-ship  as  deep  as  the 

sea; 
No  tide   of  the  Baltic  e'er  drunker  than 

he. 


Thus    Robert,    victorious,  the   trophy   has 

gain'd ; 
Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages  re- 

main'd; 
Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of  his 

blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew'd. 


Three   joyous   good   fellows,    with    heartsj 

clear  of  flaw; 
Craigdarroch,   so   famous   for  wit,  wortl 

and  law; 


THE  WHISTLE 


And   trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skilled   in   old 

coins; 
And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep-read  in  old 

wines. 


Craigdarroch  began,  with  a  tongue  smooth 

as  oil, 
Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 
Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the 
clan, 
i      And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was 
I  the  man. 

VIII 

"  By  the  gods  of  the  ancients  !  "  Glenriddel 

replies, 
"  Before  I  surrender  so  glorious  a  prize, 
I  '11  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great   Rorie 

More, 
And   bumper   his   horn  with   him   twenty 

times  o'er." 


Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  no  speech  would  pre- 
tend. 

But  he  ne'er  turn'd  his  back  on  his  foe,  or 
his  friend; 

Said:  —  "Toss  down  the  Whistle,  the  prize 
of  the  field," 

And,  knee-deep  in  claret,  he  'd  die  ere  he  'd 
yield. 


To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  re- 
pair. 

So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care; 

But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more 
known  to  fame 

Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste,  of  a  sweet 
lovely  dame. 


A  Bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray. 
And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day; 
A   Bard   who    detested    all    sadness   and 

spleen, 
And  wish'd  that  Parnassus  a  vineyard  had 

been. 


The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply. 
And  ev'ry  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  of  joy; 
In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred 
so  set, 


And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more 
they  were  wet. 


Gay  Pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o'er; 
Bright  Phcebus  ne'er  witness'd  so  joyous  a 

core, 
And  vow'd  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite 

forlorn. 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he  'd  see  them   next 

morn. 


Six  bottles  a-piece  had. well  wore  out  the 

night, 
When  gallant  Sir  Robert,  to  finish  the  fight, 
Turn'd  o'er  in  one  bumper  a  bottle  of  red. 
And  swore  't  was  the  way  that  their  ances- 
tor did. 


Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and 
sage. 

No  longer  the  warfare  ungodly  would  wage: 

A  high  Ruling  Elder  to  wallow  in  wine  ! 

He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  di- 
vine. 


The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the 

end; 
But  who  can  with  Fate  and  quart  bumpers 

contend  ? 
Though  Fate  said,  a  hero  should  perish  in 

light; 
So  uprose  bright  Phoebus  —  and  down  fell 

the  knight. 


Next   uprose  our  Bard,  like  a  prophet  in 

drink  :  — 
"  Craigdarroch,  thou  'It  soar  when  creation 

shall  sink  ! 
But  if   thou   would   flourish   immortal   in 

rhyme, 
Come  —  one  bottle  more  —  and  have  at  the 

sublime  ! 


"  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  freedom 

with  Bruce, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce: 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay; 
The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  God 

of  Day!"  '  ^ 


102 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


[The  poems  included  in  this  general  division 
■were  gathered  for  the  Centenary  Edition  from 
various  periodicals,  from  the  several  series  of 
tracts  by  Stewart  aud  Meikle,  Glasgow,  ori- 


ginally published  at  a  penny  or  twopence  each, 
from  similar  cheap  publications,  from  the  more 
or  less  complete  editions  of  Bnrns's  works,  and 
from  manuscripts  not  before  printed.] 


THE   JOLLY   BEGGARS 

A   CANTATA 

The  Bums  of  this  "  puissant  and  splendid 

production,"  as  Matthew  Arnold  calls  it  —  this 
irresistible  presentation  of  humanity  caught  in 
the  act  and  summarised  for  ever  in  the  terms 
of  art  —  comes  into  line  with  divers  poets  of 
repute,  from  our  own  Dekker  and  John 
Fletcher  to  the  singer  of  les  Gueux  (1813)  and 
le  Vieux  Vagabond  (1830),  and  approves  himself 
their  master  in  the  matter  of  such  qualities 
as  humour,  vision,  lyrical  potency,  descriptive 
style,  and  the  faculty  of  swift,  dramatic  pre- 
sentation to  a  purpose  that  may  not  be  gain- 
said. It  was  suggested  by  a  chance  visit  (in 
company  with  Richmond  and  Smith)  to  the 
"  doss-house  "  of  Poosie  Nansie,  as  Agnes  Gib- 
son was  nicknamed,  in  the  Cowgate,  Mauchline. 
This  "  ken "'  stood  directly  opposite  Johnnie 
Dow's  tavern  (The  Whitefoord  Arms).  Thence 
issuing,  the  three  friends  heard  a  sound  of  rev- 
elry at  Poosie  Nansie's,  whose  company  they 
joined.  And  a  few  days  afterwards  Burns  re- 
cited several  bits  of  the  cantata  to  Richmond. 


RECITATIVO 


When  lyart  leaves  bestrow  the  yird, 
Or,  wavering  like  the  bauckie-bird, 

Bedim  cauld  Boreas'  blast; 
When  hailstanes  drive  wi'  bitter  skyte, 
And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite, 

In  hoary  cranreuch  drest ; 
Ae  night  at  e'en  a  merry  core 

O'  randie,  gangrel  bodies 
In  Poosie-Xansie's  held  the  splore, 
To  drink  their  orra  duddies: 
Wi'  quaffing  and  laughing 

They  ranted  an'  they  sang, 
Wi'  jumping  an'  thumping 
The  vera  girdle  rang. 


n 

First,  niest  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags 
Ane  sat,  weel  brac'd  wi'  mealy  bags 

And  knapsack  a'  in  order; 
His  doxy  lay  within  bis  arm; 
Wi'  usquebae  an'  blankets  warm, 

She  blinket  on  her  sodger. 
An'  ay  he  gies  the  tozie  drab 

The  tither  skelpin  kiss, 
While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab 
Just  like  an  aumous  dish: 
Ilk  smack  still  did  crack  still 

Like  onie  cadger's  whup; 
Then,  swaggering  an'  staggering, 
He  roar'd  this  ditty  up:  — 


AIR 

Tune  :  Soldiers  Joy 


I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many 
wars. 
And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I 
come: 
This  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that  other 
in  a  trench 
When    welcoming    the    French   at    the 
sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

II 

My  prentlceship  I  past,  where  my  leader 
breath'd  his  last, 
When  the  bloody  die  was  cast   on  the 
heights  of  Abrim; 
And  I  served  out  my  trade  when  the  gal- 
lant game  was  play'd. 
And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound 
of  the  drum. 


THE  JOLLY   BEGGARS 


103 


I  lastly  was  with  Curtis  among  the  floating 
batt'ries, 
And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and 
a  limb; 
Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Eliott  to 
head  me 
I  'd  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound 
of  the  drum. 


And  now,  tlio'  I  must  beg  with  a  wooden 
arm  and  leg 
And  many  a  tatter'd  rag  hanging  over 
my  bum, 
1  'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle, 
and  my  callet 
As  when  I  us'd  in  scarlet  to  follow   a 
drum. 


What  tho'  with  hoary  locks  I  must  stand 
the  winter  shocks. 
Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  oftentimes 
for  a  home  ? 
When  the  tother  bag  I  sell,  and  the  tother 
bottle  tell, 
I  could  meet  a  troop  of  Hell  at  the  sound 
of  a  drum. 

Lai  de  dandle,  etc. 

RECITATIVO 

He  ended;  and  the  kebars  sheuk 

Aboon  the  chorus  roar; 
While  frighted  rattons  backward  leuk, 

An'  seek  the  benmost  bore: 
A  fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk, 

He  skirl'd  out  Encore  ! 
But  up  arose  the  martial  chuck, 

An'  laid  the  loud  uproar:  — 


AIR 


Tune  :  Sodger  Laddie 


1  once  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper   young 

men. 
Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my 

daddie : 
No  wonder  I  'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie ! 
Sing,  lal  de  dal,  etc. 


The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering 

blade : 
To  rattle   the    thundering   drum   was   his 

trade ; 
His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so 

ruddy. 
Transported  I  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 


But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the 

lurch ; 
The  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of  the 

church ; 
He   risked   the    soul,  and  I   ventur'd   the 

body: 
'Twas  then  I  prov'd   false  to  my  sodger 

laddie. 


Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot; 
The  regiment  at   large  for  a  husband   I 

got; 
From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I  was 

ready : 
I  ask^d  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 


But  the  Peace  it  reduc'd  me  to  beg  in  de- 
spair. 

Till  I  met  my  old  boy  in  a  Cunningham 
Fair; 

His  rags  regimental  they  flutter'd  so  gaudy: 

My  heart  it  rejoic'd  at  a  sodger  laddie. 


And  now  I  have  liv'd  —  I  know  not  how 
long  ! 

But  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  and  a  song; 

And  whilst  with  both  hands  I  can  hold  the 
glass  steady, 

Here  's  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  lad- 
die ! 

Sing,  lal  de  dal,  etc. 


RECITATIVO 

Poor  Merry- Andrew  in  the  neuk 
Sat  guzzling  wi'  a  tinkler-hizzie; 

They  mind  't  na  wha  the  chorus  teuk, 
Between  themselves  they  were  sae  busy. 
At  length,  wi'  drink  an'  courting  dizzy, 


I04 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


He  stoiter'd  up  an'  made  a  face; 

Then  turu'd  an'  laid  a  smack  on  Grizzle, 
Syne  tmi'd  his  pipes  wi'  grave  grimace :  — 


AIR 


Tune  :  Auld  Sir  Symon 


Sir  Wisdom  's  a  fool  when  he  's  f on ; 

Sir  Knave  is  a  fool  in  a  session: 
He's  there  but  a  prentice  I  trow, 

But  I  am  a  fool  by  profession. 


My  grannie  she  bought  me  a  beuk, 
An'  I  held  awa  to  the  school: 

I  fear  I  my  talent  misteuk, 

But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a  fool  ? 

Ill 

For  drink  I  wad  venture  my  neck; 

A  hizzie  's  the  half  of  my  craft: 
But  what  could  ye  other  expect 

Of  ane  that 's  avowedly  daft  ? 


I  ance  was  tyed  up  like  a  stirk 
For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffing; 

I  ance  was  abus'd  i'  the  kirk 
For  towsing  a  lass  i'  my  daffin. 


Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport 
Let  naebody  name  wi'  a  jeer: 

There  's  even,  I  'm  tauld,  i'  the  Court 
A  tumbler  ca'd  the  Premier. 


Observ'd  ye  yon  reverend  lad 
Mak  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ? 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad  ■ 
It 's  rivalship  just  i'  the  job  ! 


And  now  my  conclusion  I  '11  tell, 
For  faith  !  I  'm  confoundedly  dry : 

The  chiel  that 's  a  fool  for  himsel, 
Guid  Lord  !  he  's  far  dafter  than  I. 

RECITATIVO 

Then  niest  outspak  a  raucle  carlin, 
Wha  kent  fu'  weel  to  cleek  the  sterlin, 


For  monie  a  pursie  she  had  hooked. 
An'  had  in  monie  a  well  been  douk^d. 
Her  love  had  been  a  Highland  laddie, 
But  weary  fa'  the  waefu'  woodie  ! 
Wi'  sighs  an'  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Higblandman :  — 

AIR 

Tune  :  O  An'  Ye  Were  Dead.  Guidman 


A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born, 
The  Lalland  laws  he  held  in  scorn. 
But  he  still  was  faithfu'  to  his  clan. 
My  gallant,  braw  John  Higblandman. 

CHORUS 

Sing  hey  my  braw  John  Higblandman  ! 
Sing  ho  my  braw  John  Higblandman  ! 
There  's  not  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Was  match  for  my  John  Higblandman  ! 


With  his  philibeg,  an'  tartan  plaid. 
An'  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side. 
The  ladies'  hearts  he  did  trepan. 
My  gallant,  braw  John  Higblandman. 


We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
An'  liv'd  like  lords  an'  ladies  gay, 
For  a  Lalland  face  he  feared  none. 
My  gallant,  braw  John  Higblandman. 


They  banish'd  him  beyond  the  sea. 
But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran, 
Embracing  my  John  Higblandman. 

V 

But,  Och  !  they  catch'd  him  at  the  last, 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast. 
My  curse  upon  them  every  one  — 
They  've  hang'd  my  braw  John  Highland- 
man  ! 


And  now  a  widow  I  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  return; 
No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can 
When  I  think  on  John  Higblandman. 


THE   JOLLY   BEGGARS 


105 


CHORUS 


Sing  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandman  ! 
Sing  ho  my  braw  John  Highlandman  ! 
There  's  not  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman  ! 


RECITATIVO 


A  pigmy  scraper  on  a  fiddle, 

Wha  us'd  to  trystes  an'  fairs  to  driddle, 

Her  strappin  limb  an'  gawsie  middle 

(He  reach'd  nae  higher) 
Had  hol'd  his  heartie  like  a  riddle, 

An'  blawn  't  on  fire. 


Wi'  hand  on  hainch  and  upward  e'e, 
He  croon'd  his  gamut,  one,  two,  three, 
Then  in  an  arioso  key 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  off  wi'  allegretto  glee 

His  giga  solo :  — 


AIR 


Tune  :   Whistle  Owre  the  Lave  OH 


Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear; 
An'  go  wi'  me  an'  be  my  dear, 
An'  then  your  every  care  an'  fear 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't, 

CHORUS 

I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 
An'  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  I  play'd, 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid 
Was  Whistle  Owre  the  Lave  O't. 


At  kirns  an'  weddins  we  'se  be  there, 
An'  O,  sae  nicely  's  we  will  fare  ! 
We  '11  bowse  about  till  Daddie  Care 
Sing  Whistle  Owre  the  Lave  O't. 


Sae  merrily  the  banes  we  '11  pyke. 
An'  sun  oursels  about  the  dyke; 
An'  at  our  leisure,  when  ye  like, 
We  '11  —  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't ! 


IV 


But  bless  me  wi'  your  heav'n  o'  charms, 
An'  while  I  kittle  hair  on  thairms, 
Hunger,  cauld,  an'  a'  sic  harms 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 


CHORUS 


I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 
An'  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  I  play'd. 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid 
Was  Whistle  Owre  the  Lave  O't. 


RECITATIVO 


Her  charms  had  struck  a  sturdy  caird 

As  weal  as  poor  gut-scraper; 
He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard, 

Au'  draws  a  roosty  rapier; 
He  swoor  by  a'  was  swearing  worth 

To  speet  him  like  a  pliver. 
Unless  he  would  from  that  time  forth 

Relinquish  her  for  ever. 


Wi'  ghastly  e'e  poor  Tweedle-Dee 

Upon  his  hunkers  bended, 
An'  pray'd  for  grace  wi'  ruefu'  face, 

An'  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 
But  tho'  his  little  heart  did  grieve 

When  round  the  tinkler  prest  her, 
He  feign'd  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve 

When  thus  the  caird  address'd  her: 


AIR 
Tune  :  C/out  the  Cauldron 

I 

My  bonie  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinkler  is  my  station; 
I  've  travell'd  round  all  Christian  ground 

In  this  my  occupation; 
I  've  taeu  the  gold,  an'  been  enrolled 

In  many  a  noble  squadron; 
But  vain  thej'  search'd  wlien  off  I  march'd 

To  go  an'  clout  the  cauldron. 


Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither'd  imp, 
With  a'  his  noise  an'  cap'rin. 


io6 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


An'  take  a  share  wi'  those  that  bear 

The  budget  and  the  apron  ! 
And  by  that  stowp,  my  faith  an'  houpe  ! 

And  by  that  dear  Kilbaigie  ! 
If  e'er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant, 

May  I  ne'er  weet  my  craigie  ! 


RECITATIVO 


The  caird  prevail'd:  th'  unblushing  fair 

In  his  embraces  sunk. 
Partly  wi'  love  o'ercome  sae  sair. 

An'  partly  she  was  drunk. 
Sir  Violino,  with  an  air 

That  show'd  a  man  o'  spunk, 
Wish'd  unison  between  the  pair, 

An'  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 


But  hurchin  Cupid  shot  a  shaft. 

That  play'd  a  dame  a  shavie: 
The  fiddler  rak'd  her  fore  and  aft 

Behint  the  chicken  cavie; 
Her  lord,  a  wight  of  Homer's  craft, 

Tho'  limpin'  wi'  the  spavie. 
He  hirpl'd  up,  an'  lap  like  daft, 

An'  shor'd  them  "  Dainty  Davie  " 
O'  boot  that  night. 


He  was  a  care-defying  blade 

As  ever  Bacchus  listed  ! 
Tho'  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid. 

His  heart,  she  ever  miss'd  it. 
He  had  no  wish  but  —  to  be  glad, 

Nor  want  but  —  when  he  thristed. 
He  hated  nought  but  —  to  be  sad; 

An'  thus  the  Muse  suggested 
His  sang  that  night. 


Al^ 


Tune:  For  A'  That,  An''  A'  That 


I  am  a  Bard,  of  no  regard 
Wi'  gentle  folks  an'  a'  that. 

But  Homer-like  the  glowrin  byke, 
Frae  town  to  town  I  draw  that. 


CHORUS 


For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

An'  twice  as  muckle  's  a'  that, 
I  've  lost  but  ane,  I  've  twa  behin', 

I  've  wife  eneugh  for  a'  that. 


I  never  drank  the  Muses'  stank, 
Castalia's  burn,  an'  a'  that; 

But  there  it  streams,  an'  richly  reams 
My  Helicon  I  ca'  that. 

Ill 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair, 
Their  humble  slave  an'  a'  that; 

But  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  still 
A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 


In  raptures  sweet  this  hour  we  meet 
Wi'  mutual  love  an'  a'  that; 

But  for  how  lang  the  flie  may  stang, 
Let  inclination  law  that  ! 


Their  tricks  an'  craft  hae  put  me  daft. 
They  've  taen  me  in,  an'  a'  that; 

But  clear  your  decks,  an'  here's  the  Sex! 
I  like  the  jads  for  a'  that. 

CHORUS 

For  a'  that,  an'  a  that. 

An'  twice  as  muckle  's  a'  that. 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid. 
They  're  welcome  till  't  for  a'  that! 

RECITATIVO 

So  sung  the  Bard,  and  Nansie's  wa's 
Shook  with  a  thunder  of  applause, 
Re-echo'd  from  each  mouth  ! 
They    toom'd    their    pocks,    they   pawn'd 

their  duds, 
They  scarcely  left  to  coor  their  fuds, 

To  quench  their  lowin  drouth. 
Then  owre  again  the  jovial  thrang 

The  Poet  did  request 
To  lowse  his  pack,  an'  wale  a  sang, 
A  ballad  o'  the  best: 
He  rising,  rejoicing 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 
Looks  round  him,  an'  found  them 
Impatient  for  the  chorus  :  — 


THE   TWA   HERDS:   OR,    THE   HOLY   TULYIE 


107 


Tune  :  Jolly  Mortals,  Fill  Your  Glasses 


See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us  ! 

Mark  our  jovial,  ragged  ring  ! 
Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 

And  in  raptures  let  us  sing: 

CHORUS 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  ! 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast. 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest ! 


What  is  title,  what  is  treasure. 
What  is  reputation's  care  ? 

If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 
'T  is  no  matter  how  or  where  ! 


With  the  ready  trick  and  fable 
Round  we  wander  all  the  day; 

And  at  night  in  barn  or  stable 
Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 


Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Thro'  the  country  lighter  rove  ? 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love  ? 


Life  is  all  a  variorum. 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes; 
Let  them  prate  about  decorum, 

Who  have  character  to  lose. 


Here  's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets  ! 

Here  's  to  all  tlie  wandering  train  ! 
Here  's  our  ragged  brats  and  callets  ! 

One  and  all,  cry  out,  Amen  ! 

CHORUS 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  ! 

Liberty  's  a  glorious  feast, 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest  ! 


SATIRES    AND   VERSES 

THE    TWA    HERDS:     OR,   THE 
HOLY   TULYIE 

AN    UNXO    MOURNFU'   TALE 

Blockheads  with  reason  wicked  wits  abhor. 
But  fool  with  fool  is  barbarous  civil  war. 

Pope. 

This  piece  and  the  two  next,  Hoh/  Willie's 
Prayer,  and  The  Kirk's  Alarm  —  with  three 
printed  before,  The  Holy  Fair,  p.  9,  The  Ad- 
dress to  the  Beil,  p.  12,  and  The  Ordination,  p. 
63,  —  constitute  what  is  certainly  the  most  bril- 
liant series  of  assaults  ever  delivered  against  the 
practical  bigotry  of  the  Kirk.  Burns  suffered 
by  them  in  reputation  during  his  life  and  long 
afterwards.  Even  his  most  amicable  critics 
have  generally  failed  to  appreciate,  or  at  least 
to  indicate,  their  true  significance,  and  have 
deemed  it  seemly  to  qualify  admiration  of 
their  cleverness  with  apologies  for  their  irreve- 
rence. But,  irreverent  or  not,  they  did  for 
the  populace  much  the  same  service  as  was 
done  by  the  Essay  on  Miracles  for  the  class  of 
light  and  leading,  and  have  proved  an  endur- 
ing antidote  against  the  pecxdiar  superstitions 
with  which  the  many  Scots  afflicted  them- 
selves so  desperately  and  so  long. 

"  The  following,"  wrote  Burns  in  a  note  to 
a  MS.  copy,  now  in  the  British  Museum,  "  was 
the  first  of  my  poetical  productions  that  saw 
the  light.  I  gave  a  copy  of  it  to  a  particular 
friend  of  mine,  who  was  very  fond  of  these 
things,  and  told  him  '  I  did  not  know  who 
was  the  author,  but  that  I  had  got  a  copy  of  it 
by  accident.'  The  occasion  was  a  bitter  and 
shameless  quarrel  between  two  Rev.  gentle- 
men, Moodie  of  Riccarton  and  Russell  of  KU- 
marnoek.  It  was  at  the  time  when  the  hue 
and  cry  against  patronage  was  at  its  worst." 
After  a  similar  account  in  the  Autobiographi- 
cal Letter  to  Dr.  Moore  he  adds :  "  With  a 
certain  set  of  both  clergy  and  laity  it  met  with 
a  roar  of  applause."  The  quarrel  was  about 
parochial  boundaiies.  and  in  the  discussion  of 
the  question,  says  Lockhart,  "  the  reverend 
divines,  hitherto  sworn  friends  and  associates, 
lost  all  command  of  temper,  and  abused  each 
other  coram  populo,  with  a  fiery  ^^^ulence  of 
personal  invective  such  as  has  long  been 
banished  from  all  popular  assemblies,  wherein 
tlie  laws  of  courtesy  are  enforced  by  those  of  a 
certain  un^viitten  code." 


O  a'  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 
W^eel  fed  on  pastures  orthodox. 


io8 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Wha  now  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox 
Or  worrying  tykes  ? 

Or  wha  will  teut  the  waifs  an'  crocks 
About  the  dykes  ? 


The  twa  best  herds  in  a'  the  wast, 
That  e'er  gae  gospel  horn  a  blast 
These  five  an'  twenty  simmers  past  — 

O,  dool  to  tell !  — 
Hae  had  a  bitter,  black  out-cast 

Atween  themsel. 


O  Moodie,  man,  an'  wordy  Russell, 

How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle  ? 

Ye  '11  see  how  New-Light  herds  will  whistle. 

An'  think  it  fine  ! 
The  Lord's  cause  gat  na  sic  a  twistle 

Sin'  I  hae  min'. 

IV 
O  Sirs  ?  whae'er  wad  hae  expeckit 
Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit  ? 
Ye  wha  were  no  by  lairds  respeckit 

To  wear  the  plaid, 
But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit 

To  be  their  guide  ! 


What  flock  wi'  Moodie's  flock  could  rank, 
Sae  hale  an'  hearty  every  shank  ? 
Nae  poison'd,  soor  Arminian  stank 

He  let  them  taste; 
But  Calvin's  fountainhead  they  drank  — 

O,  sic  a  feast ! 

VI 

The  thummart,  wilcat,  brock,  an'  tod 
Weel  kend  his  voice  thro'  a'  the  wood; 
He  smell'd  their  ilka  hole  an'  road, 

Baith  out  and  in; 
An'  weel  he  lik'd  to  shed  their  bluid 

An'  sell  their  skin. 


What  herd  like  Russell  tell'd  his  tale  ? 
His  voice  was  heard  thro'  miiir  and  dale; 
He  kend  the  Lord's  sheep,  ilka  tail, 

O'er  a'  the  height; 
An'  tell'd  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale 

At  the  first  sight. 

VIII 

He  fine  a  mangy  sheep  could  scrub; 
Or  nobly  swing  the  gospel  club; 


Or  New-Light  herds  could  nicely  drub 
And  pay  their  skin; 

Or  hing  them  o'er  the  burning  dub 
Or  heave  them  in. 


Sic  twa  —  O,  do  I  live  to  see  't  ?  — 
Sic  famous  twa  sud  disagree  't. 
An'  names  like  villain,  hypocrite, 

Ilk  ither  gi'en. 
While  New-Light  herds  wi'  laughin  spite 

Say  neither  's  liein  ! 


A'  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauld. 
Thee,  Duncan  deep,  an'  Peebles  shaul', 
But  chiefly  great  apostle  Auld, 

We  trust  in  thee. 
That  thou  wilt  work  them  hot  an'  cauld 

Till  they  agree  ! 


Consider,  sirs,  how  we  're  beset: 
There  's  scarce  a  new  herd  that  we  get 
But  comes  frae  'mang  that  cursed  set 

I  winna  name: 
I  hope  frae  heav'n  to  see  them  yet 

In  fiery  flame  ! 

XII 
Dalrymple  has  been  lang  our  fae, 
M'Gill  has  wrought  us  ineikle  wae. 
An'  that  curs'd  rascal  ca'd  M'Quhae, 

An'  baith  the  Shaws, 
That  aft  hae  made  us  black  an'  blae 

Wi'  vengefu'  paws. 


Auld  Wodrow  lang  has  hatch'd  mischief: 
We  thought  ay  death  wad  bring  relief. 
But  he  has  gotten  to  our  grief 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 
A  chield  wha  'U  soundly  buff  our  beef  — 

I  meikle  dread  him. 


An'  monie  mae  that  I  could  tell, 
Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 
Forby  turn-coats  amang  oursel: 

There  's  Smith  for  ane  - 
I  doubt  he  's  but  a  greyneck  still, 

An'  that  ye  '11  fin' ! 


O  a'  ye  flocks  o'er  a'  the  hills. 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors,  an'  fells. 


HOLY  WILLIE'S  PRAYER 


109 


Come,  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills 
To  cowe  the  lairds, 

An'  get  the  brutes  the  power  themsels 
To  chuse  their  herds  ! 

XVI 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance. 
An'  Learning  in  a  woody  dance, 
An'  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common-sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair. 
Be  banish' d  o'er  the  sea  to  France  — 

Let  him  bark  there  ! 

XVII 

Then  Shaw's  an'  D'rymple's  eloquence, 
M'Gill's  close,  nervous  excellence, 
M'Quhae's  pathetic,  manly  sense, 

An'  guid  M'Math 
Wha  thro'  the  heart  can  brawly  glance. 

May  a'  pack  aff  ! 


HOLY   WILLIE'S    PRAYER   • 

And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray. 

Pope. 

The  interlocutor  in  this  amazing  achieve- 
ment in  satire,  this  matchless  parody  of  Cal- 
vinistic  intercession  —  so  nice,  so  exquisite  in 
detail,  so  overwhelming  in  effect  —  was  a  cer- 
tain William  Fisher,  son  of  Andrew  Fisher, 
farmer  at  Montgarswood,  Ayrshire,  born  in 
February,  1737  ;  succeeded  his  father  at  Mont- 
garswood, and  afterwards  tenanted  the  farm 
of  Tongue-iu-Auchterless ;  on  26th  July,  1772, 
was  ordained  elder  in  the  parish  church  of 
Mauchline ;  subsequently  became  one  of  the 
most  strenuous  of  Auld's  assistants  in  his  rigid 
surveillance  of  the  parishioners,  and  was  prob- 
ably the  informer  against  Gavin  Hamilton 
for  neglect  of  ordinances  and  violation  of  the 
Sabbath  (see  headnote  to  Dedication  to  Gavin 
Hamilton,  Esq.,  ante,  p.  41);  was  himself  in 
1790  rebuked  by  the  minister,  in  presence  of 
the  Kirk-Session,  for  drunkenness ;  and  was 
reputed  (see  Stanza  xvii.  of  The  Kirk's  Alarm, 
p.  112)  to  have  utilised  his  opportunities,  as 
'  elder  at  the  plate,"  to  help  himself  to  the 
kirk  offerings,  but  there  is  no  official  record 
of  any  such  charge.  On  his  way  home  from 
Mauchline,  in  a  snow-storm,  he  died  in  a  ditch 
by  the  roadside,  13th  February,  1809. 

The  occasion  of  the  piece  is  thus  explained 
by  Bums  in  a  preface  in  the  Glenriddell  Book 
at  Liverpool :  "  Argument.  —  Holy  Willie  was 
a  rather  oldish   bachelor  elder,  in  the  parish 


of  Mauchline,  and  much  and  justly  famed  for 
that  polemical  chattering  which  ends  in  tippling 
orthodoxy,  and  for  that  spiritualized  bawdry 
which  refines  to  liquorish  devotion.  In  a  ses- 
sional process  with  a  gentleman  in  Mauchline 
—  a  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton  —  Holy  Willie  and 
his  priest.  Father  Auld,  after  full  hearing  in 
the  Presbytery  of  Ayr,  came  off  but  second 
best,  owing  partly  to  the  oratorical  powers  of 
Mr.  Robert  Aiken,  Mr.  Hamilton's  counsel; 
but  chiefly  to  Mr.  Hamilton's  being  one  of 
the  most  irreproachable  and  truly  respectable 
characters  in  the  country.  On  losing  his  pro- 
cess, the  muse  overheard  him  at  his  devotions, 
as  follows."  A  Presbyterial  decision  in  favour 
of  Hamilton  was  given  in  January,  1785.  The 
Session  appealed  to  the  Synod,  but  was  at  last 
constrained  to  grant  Hamilton  a  certificate, 
17th  July,  1785 :  to  the  effect  that  he  was 
"  free  from  public  scandal  or  ground  of  church 
censure  known  to  us." 


O  Thou  that  in  the  Heavens  does  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  Thysel, 
Sends  ane  to  Heaven  an'  ten  to  Hell 

A'  for  Thy  glory. 
And  no  for  onie  guid  or  ill 

They  've  done  before  Thee  ! 


I  bless  and  praise  Thy  matchless  might. 
When  thousands  Thou  hast  left  in  night, 
That  I  am  here  before  Thy  sight. 

For  gifts  an'  grace 
A  burning  and  a  shining  light 

To  a'  this  place. 


What  was  I,  or  my  generation. 
That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation  ? 
I,  wha  deserv'd  most  just  damnation 

For  broken  laws 
Sax  thousand  years  ere  my  creation. 

Thro'  Adam's  cause  ! 


When  from  my  mither's  womb  I  fell. 
Thou  might  hae  plung'd  me  deep  in  hell 
To  gnash  my  gooms,  and  weep,  and  wail 

In  burning  lakes, 
Whare  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain'd  to  their  stakes. 


Yet  I  am  here,  a  chosen  sample. 

To  show  Thy  grace  is  great  and  ample: 


no 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


I  'm  here  a  pillar  o'  Thy  temple, 
Strong  as  a  rock, 

A  guide,  a  buckler,  and  example 
To  a'  thy  flock  J 


But  yet,  O  Lord  !  confess  I  must: 
At  times  I  'm  fash'd  wi'  fleshly  lust; 
An'  sometimes,  too,  in  warldly  trust, 

Vile  self  gets  in ; 
But  Thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defiled  wi'  sin. 


O  Lord  !  yestreen.  Thou  kens,  wi'  Meg 
Thy  pardon  I  sincerely  beg  — 
O,  may  't  ne'er  be  a  living  plague 

To  my  dishonour  ! 
An'  I  '11  ne'er  lift  a  lawless  leg 

Again  upon  her. 


Besides,  I  farther  maun  avow  — 

Wi'  Leezie's  lass,  three  times,  I  trow  — 

But,  Lord,  that  Friday  I  was  fou, 

When  I  cam  near  her, 
Or  else,  Thou  kens.  Thy  servant  true 

Wad  never  steer  her. 

IX 

Maybe  Thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 
Buffet  Thy  servant  e'en  and  morn. 
Lest  he  owre  proud  and  high  should  turn 

That  he 's  sae  gifted : 
If  sae.  Thy  ban'  maun  e'en  be  borne 

Until  Thou  lift  it. 


Lord,  bless  Thy  chosen  in  this  place. 
For  here  Thou  has  a  chosen  race  ! 
But  God  confound  their  stubborn  face 

An'  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  Thy  elders  to  disgrace 

An'  open  shame  ! 


Lord,  mind  Gau'n  Hamilton's  deserts: 
He  drinks,  an'  swears,  an'  plays  at  cartes. 
Yet  has  sae  monie  takin  arts 

Wi'  great  and  sma', 
Frae  God's  ain  Priest  the  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa. 

XII 

And  when  we  chasten'd  him  therefore. 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore, 


And  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

O'  laughiu  at  us: 
Curse  Thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  an'  potatoes  ! 

XIII 

Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  pray'r 

Against  that  Presbyt'ry  of  Ayr  ! 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  Lord,  mak  it  bare 

Upo'  their  heads! 
Lord,  visit  them,  an'  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds! 


O  Lord,  my  God  !  that  glib-tongu'd  Aiken, 
My  vera  heart  and  flesh  are  quakin 
To  think  how  we  stood  sweatin,  shakin, 

An'  pish'd  wi'  dread, 
While  he,  wi'  hingin  lip  an'  snakin. 

Held  up  his  head. 


Lord,  in  Thy  day  o'  vengeance  try  him  1 
Lord,  visit  him  wha  did  employ  him  I 
And  pass  not  in  Thy  mercy  by  them. 

Nor  hear  their  pray'r. 
But  for  Thy  people's  sake  destroy  them, 

An'  dinna  spare ! 


But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine 
Wi'  mercies  temporal  and  divine, 
That  I  for  grace  an'  gear  may  shine 

Excell'd  by  nane; 
And  a'  the  glory  shall  be  Thine  — 

Amen,  Amen ! 


THE   KIRK'S    ALARM 

William  M'Gill,  minister  of  Ayr  —  whose 
"heretic  blast"  aroused  the  "alarm"  here 
burlesqued  —  was  youngest  son  of  William 
M'Gill,  farmer  of  Carsenestock,  Wigtonshire  ; 
born  lT'J"i ;  educated  at  the  University  of  Glas- 
gow ;  became  assistant  at  Kilwinning  in  June, 
1760 ;  and  was  ordained  to  the  second  charge 
of  Ayr,  22d  October,  1761,  as  colleague  to 
William  Dalrymple.  M'Gill,  who  received  the 
degree  of  D.  D.  in  1781,  published  (Edinburgh, 
1786)  a  Practical  Essay  on  the  Death  of  Christ, 
which  set  forth  doctrines  held  to  be  Socinian. 
It  was  commended  in  his  colleague  Dalrym- 
ple's  History  of  Christ,  1787  ;  and  attacked,; 
although  guardedly  and  by  implication,  bj 
Dr.  William  Peebles,  in  a  Centenary  iiermon  ofl 


THE  KIRK'S   ALARM 


III 


the  Revolution,  preached  5th  November,  1788, 
and  published  soon  afterwards.  M'Gill  re- 
plied in  The  Benefits  of  the  Revolution,  Kil- 
marnock, 1789 :  whereupon  a  complaint  against 
his  Essay,  as  being  heterodox,  was  presented 
on  15th  April  to  the  Synod  of  Glasgow  and 
Ayr.  The  Synod  ordered  the  Presbytery  of 
Ayr  to  take  up  the  case,  and  the  General 
Assembly,  though  it  quashed  the  order,  added 
a  general  recommendation  to  the  Presby- 
tery to  see  to  it  that  doctrinal  purity  was 
maintained.  With  this  general  warrant  the 
Presbytery  appointed  (15th  July)  a  eomvnittee 
to  consider  and  report  specifically  on  M'Gill's 
doctrines ;  and  on  14th  April,  1790,  he  com- 
promised the  matter  by  offering  an  explanation 
and  an  apology,  which  the  Synod  accepted. 
M'Gill  died  3Uth  March,  1807.  He  was  more 
philosopher  than  ecclesiastic.  A  simple  and 
unworldly  man  and  a  resolute  student,  he  was 
at  the  same  time  a  quaint  and  cheerful  humour- 
ist, and  was  held  by  his  parishioners  in  singular 
affection  and  respect.  Burns's  regard  for  him, 
like  his  reverence  for  Dalrymple,  dated  from 
childhood;  and  the  doctrines  which  had  so 
perturbed  the  "  Orthodox "  Avere  those  which 
William  Burness  [we  have  adopted  throughout 
the  Poet's  own  spelling  of  his  father's  name] 
had  embodied  in  his  Manual  of  Religious  Belief. 
The  satire  was  evoked  by  the  action  of  the 
Presbytery  on  loth  July,  1789.  Two  days 
later  Burns  sent  a  draft  of  it  to  Mrs.  Dunlop 
in  an  unpublished  letter :  "  You  will  be  well 
acquainted  with  the  persecution  that  my  worthy 
friend  Dr.  M'Gill  is  undergoing  among  your 
divines.  Several  of  these  reverend  lads  his 
opponents  have  come  through  my  hands  be- 
fore ;  but  I  have  some  thoughts  of  serving 
them  up  in  a  different  dish.  I  have  just 
sketched  the  following  ballad  and  as  usual 
send  the  first  rough  draft  to  you." 


Orthodox  !  orthodox  !  — 

Wha  believe  in  John  Knox  — 
Let  nie  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience: 

A  heretic  blast 

Has  been  blawn  i'  the  Wast, 
That  what  is  not  sense  must  be  nonsense  — 

Orthodox  ! 
That  what  is  not  sense  must  be  nonsense. 


Dr.  Mac  !  Dr.  Mac  ! 
You  should  stretch  on  a  rack, 
To  strike  wicked  Writers  wi'  terror: 
To  join  faith  and  sense, 


Upon  onie  pretence, 
Was  heretic,  damnable  error  — 

Dr.  Mac  ! 
'T  was  heretic,  damnable  error. 


Town  of  Ayr  !  Town  of  Ayr  J 
It  was  rash,  I  declare. 

To  meddle  wi'  mischief  a-brewing: 
Provost  John  is  still  deaf 
To  the  church's  relief. 

And  Orator  Bob  is  its  ruin  — 
Town  of  Ayr  ! 

And  Orator  Bob  is  its  ruin. 


D'rymple  mild  !  D'rymple  mild  ! 

Tho'  your  heart 's  like  a  child, 
An'  your  life  like  the  new-driven  snaw. 

Yet  that  wiuna  save  ye: 

Auld  Satan  must  have  ye, 
For  preaching  that  three  's  ane  and  twa  - 

D'rymple  mild  ! 
For  preaching  that  three  's  ane  and  twa. 


Calvin's  sons  !  Calvin's  sons  ! 

Seize  your  sp'ritual  guns, 
Ammunition  you  never  can  need: 

Your  hearts  are  the  stuff 

Will  be  powther  enough, 
And  your  skulls  are  store-houses  o'  lead  ■ 

Calvin's  sons  ! 
Your  skulls  are  store-houses  o'  lead. 


Rumble  John  !  Rumble  John  ! 

Mount  the  steps  with  a  groan. 
Cry:  "  The  book  is  wi'  heresy  cramm'd;" 

Then  lug  out  your  ladle, 

Deal  brimstone  like  adle, 
And  roar  every  note  o'  the  damn'd  — 

Rumble  John  ! 
And  roar  every  note  o'  the  damn'd. 


Simper  James  !  Simper  James  ! 

Leave  the  fair  Killie  dames  — 
There  's  a  holier  chase  in  your  view: 

I  '11  lay  on  your  head 

That  the  pack  ye  '11  soon  lead, 
For  puppies  like  you  there  's  but  few  — 

Simper  James  ! 
For  puppies  like  you  there  's  but  few- 


112 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Singet  Sawnie  !  Singet  Sawnie  ! 

Are  ye  herding  the  penny, 
Unconscious  what  evils  await  ? 

Wi'  a  jump,  yell,  and  howl 

Alarm  every  soul, 
For  the  Foul  Thief  is  just  at  your  gate  — 

Singet  Sawnie  ! 
The  Foul  Thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 


Daddie  Auld  !  Daddie  Auld  ! 

There  's  a  tod  in  the  fauld, 
A  tod  meikle  waur  than  the  clerk: 

Tho'  ye  can  do  little  skaith, 

Ye  '11  be  in  at  the  death, 
And  gif  ye  canna  bite,  ye  may  bark  — 

Daddie  Auld  ! 
For  gif  ye  canna  bite  ye  may  bark. 


Davie  Rant  !  Davie  Rant  ! 

In  a  face  like  a  saunt 
And  a  heart  that  would  poison  a  hog. 

Raise  an  impudent  roar, 

Like  a  breaker  lee-shore, 
Or  the  Kirk  will  be  tint  in  a  bog  — 

Davie  Rant ! 
Or  the  Kirk  will  be  tint  in  a  bog. 


Jamie  Goose  !  Jamie  Goose  ! 

Ye  hae  made  but  toom  roose 
In  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant; 

But  the  Doctor  's  your  mark, 

For  the  Lord's  haly  ark. 
He  has  cooper'd,  and  ca'd  a  wrang  pin  in  't  — 

Jamie  Goose  ! 
He  has  cooper'd  and  ca'd  a  wrang  pin  in  't. 


Poet  Willie  !  Poet  Willie  ! 

Gie  the  Doctor  a  volley, 
Wi'  your  "  Liberty's  chain  "  and  your  wit: 

O'er  Pegasus'  side 

Ye  ne'er  laid  a  stride. 
Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  shit  — 

Poet  Willie  ! 
Ye  smelt  but  the  place  where  he  shit. 

xni 

Andro'  Gowk !  Andro'  Gowk  ! 
Ye  may  slander  the  Book, 
And  the  Book  not  the  waur,  let  me  tell  ye: 


Ye  are  rich,  and  look  big, 

But  lay  by  hat  and  wig, 
And  ye  '11  hae  a  calf's  head  o'  sma'  value  - 

Andro'  Gowk  ! 
Ye  '11  hae  a  calf's  head  o'  sma'  value. 

XIV 

Barr  Steenie  !  Barr  Steenie  ! 

What  mean  ye  ?  what  mean  ye  ? 
If  ye  '11  meddle  nae  mair  wi'  the  matter, 

Ye  may  hae  some  pretence 

To  havins  and  sense 
Wi'  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better  — 

Barr  Steenie  ! 
Wi'  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 


Irvine-side  !  Irvine-side  ! 

Wi'  your  turkey-cock  pride. 
Of  manhood  but  sma'  is  your  share: 

Ye  've  the  figure,  't  is  true, 

Even  your  faes  will  allow. 
And  your  friends  daurna  say  ye  hae  mair  ■ 

Irvine-side  ! 
Your  friends  daurna  say  ye  hae  mair. 


Muirland  Jock  !  Muirland  Jock  ! 

Whom  the  Lord  gave  a  stock 
Wad  set  up  a  tinkler  in  brass, 

If  ill  manners  were  wit. 

There  's  no  mortal  so  fit 
To  prove  the  poor  Doctor  an  ass  — 

Muirland  Jock  ! 
To  prove  the  poor  Doctor  an  ass. 

XVII 

Holy  Will !  Holy  Will ! 

There  was  wit  i'  your  skull. 
When  ye  pilfer'd  the  alms  o'  the  poor: 

The  timmer  is  scant. 

When  ye  're  taen  for  a  saunt 
Wha  should  swing  in  a  rape  for  an  hour 

Holy  Will ! 
Ye  should  swing  in  a  rape  for  an  hour. 


Poet  Burns  !  Poet  Burns  ! 

Wi'  your  priest-skelping  turns. 
Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 

Your  Muse  is  a  gipsy, 

Yet  were  she  ev'n  tipsy, 
She  could  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are  — 

Poet  Burns ! 
Ye  could  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 


A  POET'S  WELCOME  TO  HIS  LOVE-BEGOTTEN  DAUGHTER    113 


POSTSCRIPTS 


Afton's  Laird  !  Afton's  Laird  ! 

When  your  pen  can  be  spared, 
A  copy  of  this  I  bequeath, 

On  the  same  sicker  score 

As  I  mention'd  before, 
To  that  trusty  auld  worthy,  Clackleith 

Afton's  Laird  ! 
To  that  trusty  auld  worthy,  Clackleith. 


Factor  John  !  Factor  John  ! 

Whom  the  Lord  made  alone, 
And  ne'er  made  another  thy  peer, 

Thy  poor  servant,  the  Bard, 

In  respectful  regard 
He  presents  thee  this  token  sincere  — 

Factor  John  ! 
He  presents  thee  this  token  sincere. 


A     POET'S     WELCOME     TO     HIS 
LOVE-BEGOTTEN    DAUGHTER 

THE  FIRST  INSTANXE  THAT  ENTITLED 
HIM  TO  THE  VENERABLE  APPELLATION 
OF  FATHER 

The  "  wean "  of  this  generous  and  delight- 
ful Address  was  the  poet's  daughter  Elizabeth, 
by  Elizabeth  Paton,  for  some  time  a  servant  at 
Lochlie.  The  child  was  born  in  November, 
1784.  She  was  brought  by  her  father  to  Moss- 
giel.  On  his  marriage  the  child  remained 
under  the  charge  of  his  mother  and  his  brother 
Gilbert.  She  married  John  Bishop,  overseer 
at  Polkemmet,  and  died  8th  January,  1817, 
leaving  several  children.  Cf.  Prefatory  Note 
to  Epistle  to  John  Rankine,  ante,  p.  50. 


Thou  's   welcome,   wean !     Mishanter  fa' 

me, 
If  thoughts  o'  thee  or  yet  thy  mammie 
Shall  ever  daunton  me  or  awe  me, 

My  sweet,  wee  lady, 
Or  if  I  blush  when  thou  shalt  ca'  me 

Tyta  or  daddie  ! 


What  the'  they  ca'  me  fornicator, 
An'  tease  my  name  in  kintra  clatter  ? 


The  mair  they  talk,  I'm  kend  the   bet- 
ter; 

E'en  let  them  clash  ! 
An  auld  wife's   tongue's  a  feckless  mat- 
ter 

To  gie  ane  fash. 


Welcome,  my  bonie,  sweet,  wee  dochter  ! 
Tho'  ye  come  here  a  wee  unsought  for, 
And  tho'  your  comin  I  hae  fought  for 

Baith  kirk  and  queir; 
Yet,  by  my  faith,  ye  're    no    unwrought 
for  — 

That  I  shall  swear  ! 


Sweet  fruit  o'  monie  a  merry  dint, 

My  funny  toil  is  no  a'  tint: 

Tho'  thou  cam  to  the  warl'  asklent, 

Which  fools  may  scoff  at, 
In  my  last  plack  thy  part 's  be  in 't 

The  better  half  o't. 


Tho'  I  should  be  the  waur  bestead, 
Thou 's  be  as  braw  and  bienly  clad. 
And  thy  young  years  as  nicely  bred 

Wi'  education, 
As  onie  bart  o'  wedlock's  bed 

In  a'  thy  station. 


Wee  image  o'  my  bonie  Betty, 

As  fatherly  I  kiss  and  daut  thee, 

As  dear  and  near  my  heart  I  set  thee, 

Wi'  as  guid  will. 
As  a'  the  priests  had  seen  me  get  thee 

That 's  out  o'  Hell. 

VII 

'"J^ude  grant  that  thou  may  ay  inherit 
Thy  mither's  looks  an'  gracefu'  merit. 
An'  thy  poor,  worthless  daddie's  spirit 

Without  his  failins  ! 
'T  will  please  me  mair  to   see   thee  heir 
it 

Than  stocket  mailins. 

VIII 

And  if  thou  be  what  I  wad  hae  thee, 
An'  tak  the  counsel  I  shall  gie  thee, 
1  '11  never  rue  my  trouble  wi'  thee  — 

The  cost  nor  shame  o't  — 
But  be  a  loving  father  to  thee, 

And  bragr  the  name  o't. 


114 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


THE    INVENTORY 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  MANDATE  BY  THE 
SURVEYOR  OF  TAXES 

A  MS.  of  this  catalogue  of  plenishing,  dated 
May,  17S(5,  sent  to  Lady  Han-iet  Don  and 
now  in  the  Laing  Collection  in  the  University 
of  Edinburgh,  has  this  heading :  "  To  Mr. 
Robt.  Aiken  in  Ayr,  in  answer  to  his  mandate 
requiring  an  account  of  servants,  carriages,  car- 
riage horses,  riding  horses,  wives,  chOdren,"  etc. 
Currie  explains  that  the  mandate  enjoined  on 
every  man  "  to  send  a  signed  list  of  his  horses, 
servants,  wheel-carriages,  etc.,  and  whether  he 
was  a  married  man  or  a  bachelor,  and  what 
cliildren  he  had."  The  new  tax  was  levied  by 
Pitt  (May,  1785)  with  a  view  to  reducing  the 
National  Debt. 

Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 
I  send  you  here  a  faithfu'  list 
O'  guids  an'  gear  an'  a'  my  graith, 
To  which  I  'm  clear  to  gie  my  aith. 

Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage  cattle :  — 
I  hae  four  brutes  o'  gallant  mettle 
As  ever  drevr  before  a  pettle: 
My  lan'-afore  's  a  guid  auld  "  has  been," 
An'  wight  an'  wilfii'  a'  his  days  been. 
My  lan'-ahin  's  a  weel-gaun  fillie, 
That  aft  has  borne  me  hame  frae  Killie, 
An'  yoiir  auld  borough  monie  a  time 
In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime. 
(But  ance,  when  in  my  wooing  pride 
I,  like  a  blockhead,  boost  to  ride, 
The  wilf 'u  creature  sae  I  pat  to  — 
Lord,  pardon  a'  my  sins,  an'  that  too  !  — 
I  play'd  my  fillie  sic  a  shavie. 
She  's  a'  bedevil'd  wi'  the  spavie.) 
My  f ur-ahin  's  a  wordy  beast 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  traced. 
The  fourth  's  a  Highland  Donald  hastie, 
A  damn'd  red-wud  Kilburnie  blastie  ! 
Foreby,  a  cowte,  o'  cowtes  the  wale, 
As  ever  ran  afore  a  tail : 
If  he  be  spar'd  to  be  a  beast, 
He  '11  draw  me  fifteen  pund  at  least. 

Wheel-carriages  I  hae  but  few: 
Three  carts,  an'  twa  are  feckly  new; 
An  auld  wheelbarrow  —  mair  for  token, 
Ae  leg  an'  baith  the  trams  are  broken: 
I  made  a  poker  o'  the  spin'le. 
An'  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trin'le. 


For  men,  I  've  three  mischievous  boys, 
Run-deils  for  fechtin  an'  for  noise: 
A  gaudsman  aue,  a  thrasher  t'  other. 
Wee  Davoc  bauds  the  nowte  in  fother. 
I  rule  them,  as  I  ought,  discreetly. 
An'  aften  labour  them  completely; 
An'  ay  on  Sundays  duly,  nightly, 
I  on  the  Questions  tairge  them  tightly: 
Till,  faith  !  wee  Davoc  's  grown  sae  gleg, 
Tho'  scarcely  langer  than  your  leg, 
He  '11  screed  you  aff  "  Effectual  Calling  " 
As  fast  as  onie  in  the  dwalling. 

I  've  naue  in  female  servan'  station 
(Lord  keep  me  ay  frae  a'  temptation  !) : 
1  hae  nae  wife  —  and  that  my  bliss  is  — 
An'  ye  hae  laid  nae  tax  on  misses ; 
An'  then,  if  kirk  folks  dinua  clutch  me, 
I  ken  the  deevils  darena  touch  me. 

Wi'  weans  I  'm  mair  than  weel  contented: 
Heav'n  sent  me  ane  mair  than  I  wanted  ! 
My  sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess, 
She  stares  the  daddie  in  her  face, 
Enough  of  ought  ye  like  but  grace: 
But  her,  my  bonie,  sweet  wee  lady, 
I  've  paid  enough  for  her  already; 
An'  gin  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither. 
By  the  Lord,  ye  'se  get  them  a'  thegither  ! 

But  pray,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 
Nae  kind  of  licence  out  I  'm  takin: 
Frae  this  time  forth,  I  do  declare 
I  'se  ne'er  ride  horse  nor  hizzie  mair; 
Thro'  dirt  and  dub  for  life  I  '11  paidle, 
Ere  I  sae  dear  pay  for  a  saddle ; 
I  've  sturdy  stumps,  the  Lord  be  thankit, 
And  a'  my  gates  on  foot  I  '11  shank  it. 
The  Kirk  and  you  may  tak'  you  that, 
It  puts  but  little  in  your  pat: 
Sae  dinna  put  me  in  your  beuk. 
Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  leuk. 

This  list,  wi'  my  ain  hand  I  've  wrote  it. 
The  day  and  date  as  under  notit; 
Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subscripsi  huic  Robert  Burns. 


A   MAUCHLINE   WEDDING 

This,  one  of  Bums's  best-natured  squibs, 
was  enclosed  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  21st 
August,  1788,  and  is  here  published  for  the 


ADAM  ARMOUR'S   PRAYER 


1^5 


first  time  ^  (Lochryan  mss).  He  explains  that 
a  sister  of  Miller,  then  "a  tenant "  of  his  heart, 
had  hufFed  his  ''  Bardship  in  the  pride  of  her 
new  connection."  She  was  the  Miss  Betty  of 
The  Belles  of  Mauchline  (see  post,  p.  171) ;  and 
the  Eliza  of  the  Song  (see  ante,  p.  52).  Burns 
did  not  go  on  to  describe  the  ceremony: 
"Agahjst  my  Muse  had  come  thus  far,"  he 
writes,  ' '  Miss  Bess  and  I  were  once  more  in 
unison." 


When  Eighty-five  was  seven  months  auld 

And  wearing  thro'  the  aught, 
When  rolling  rains  and  Boreas  bauld 

Gied  farmer- folks  a  f aught; 
Ae  morning  quondam  Mason  W  .  .  . , 

Now  Merchant  Master  Miller, 
Gaed  down  to  meet  wi'  Nansie  B  .  .  . , 

And  her  Jamaica  siller 

To  wed,  that  day. 


The  rising  sun  o'er  Blacksideen 

Was  just  appearing  fairly, 
When  Nell  and  Bess  got  up  to  dress 

Seven  lang  half-hours  o'er  early  ! 
Now  presses  clink,  and  drawers  jink, 

For  linens  and  for  laces: 
But  modest  Muses  only  think 

What  ladies'  underdress  is 
On  sic  a  day  ! 


But  we  'II  suppose  the  stays  are  lac'd, 

And  bonie  bosoms  steekit, 
Tho'  thro'  the  lawn  —  but  guess  the  rest  ! 

An  angel  scarce  durst  keek  it. 
Then  stockins  fine  o'  silken  twine 

Wi'  cannie  care  are  drawn  up; 
An'  garten'd  tight  whare  mortal  wight  — 

As  I  never  wrote  it  down  my  recollection  does  not  en- 
tirely serve  me. 

IV 

But  now  the  gown  wi'  rustling  sound 

Its  silken  pomp  displays; 
Sure  there  's  nae  sin  in  being  vain 

O'  siccan  bonie  claes  ! 
Sae  jimp  the  waist,  the  tail  sae  vast  — 

Trouth,  they  were  bonie  birdies  ! 
0  Mither  Eve,  ye  wad  been  grieve 

To  see  their  ample  hurdles 

Sae  large  that  day  ! 

^  That  is,  in  the  Centenary  Edition. 


Then  Sandy,  wi  's  red  jacket  braw, 

Comes  whip-jee-woa  !  about, 
And  in  he  gets  the  bonie  twa  — 

Lord,  send  them  safely  out ! 
And  auld  John  Trot  wi'  sober  phiz, 

As  braid  and  braw 's  a  Bailie, 
His  shouthers  and  his  Sunday's  jiz 

Wi'  powther  and  wi'  ulzie 

Weel  smear'd  that  day. 


ADAM   ARMOUR'S    PRAYER 

Published  in  The  Scots  Magazine,  January, 
1808.  The  interlocutor  in  this  intercession  was 
Burns's  brother-in-law.  At  this  time  he  had 
headed  a  band  of  younkers  in  Mauchline  in  the 
work  of  stanging  —  which  is  riding  astride  an 
unbarked  sapling  —  a  loose  woman,  one  Agnes 
Wilson,  who  figures  in  the  Kirk-Session  records 
of  March,  178(5,  as  "  the  occasion  of  a  late  dis- 
turbance in  this  place."  The  Geordie,  whose 
"jurr"  or  maid  she  was.  is  described  in  The 
Scots  Magazine  as  the  village  constable  ;  but 
this  is  clearly  a  mistake.  He  was,  in  fact, 
one  George  Gibson,  the  husband  of  Poosie 
Nansie.  See  reference  in  the  head-note  to  The 
Jolly  Beggars,  ante,  p.  102.  As  Gibson  resented 
the  outrage  on  his  maid.  Armour,  dreading  the 
law's  reprisals,  absconded.  According  to  the 
person  who  sent  the  thing  to  The  Scots  Maga- 
zine, Armour  chose  Burns's  house  as  his  hid- 
ing-place. The  person  adds  that  he  got  the 
manuscript  from  Armour  himself,  who  told 
him  "  that  Burns  composed  it  one  Sunday  even- 
ing just  before  he  took  the  jBoot,"  i.  e.  the 
Bible. 

I 

GuDE  pity  me,  because  I  'm  little  ! 
For  though  I  am  an  elf  o'  mettle. 
And  can  like  onie  wabster's  shuttle 

Jink  there  or  here, 
Yet,  scarce  as  lang  's  a  guid  kail-whittle, 

I  'm  unco  queer. 


An'  now  Thou  kens  our  woefu*  case: 
For  Geordie's  jurr  we  're  in  disgrace. 
Because  we  stang'd  her  through  the  plaee- 

An'  hurt  her  spleuchan; 
For  whilk  we  daurna  show  our  face 

Within  the  clachan. 


ii6 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


III 

An'  now  we  're  dern'd  in  dens  and  hollows, 
And  hunted,  as  was  William  Wallace, 
Wi'     constables  —  thae     blackguard     fal- 
lows — 

An'  sodgers  baith; 
But  Gude  preserve  us  frae  the  gallows, 

That  shamefu'  death  ! 


Auld,  grim,  black-bearded  Geordie's  sel' 
O,  shake  him  owre  the  mouth  o'  Hell  ! 
There  let  him  hing,  an'  roar,  an'  yell 

Wi'  hideous  din. 
And  if  he  offers  to  rebel, 

Then  heave  him  in  ! 


When  Death  comes  in  wi'  glimmerin  blink, 
An'  tips  auld  drncken  Nanse  the  wink. 
May  Sautan  gie  her  doup  a  clink 

Within  his  yett. 
An'  fill  her  up  wi'  brimstone  drink 

E,ed-reekin  het. 


Though  Jock  an'  hav'rel  Jean  are  merry, 
Some  devil  seize  them  in  a  huriy, 
An'  waft  them  in  tli'  infernal  wherry 

Straught  through  the  lake, 
An'  gie  their  hides  a  noble  curry 

Wi'  oil  of  aik  ! 

VII 

As  for  the  jurr  —  puir  worthless  body  !  — 
She  's  got  mischief  enough  already; 
Wi'  stanget  hips  and  buttocks  bluidy 

She  's  suffer'd  sair; 
But  may  she  wintle  in  a  woody 

If  she  whore  mair  ! 


NATURE'S    LAW 

HUMBLY  INSCRIBED  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON, 
ESQUIRE 

Great  Nature  spoke,  observant  man  obeyed. 


Written  shortly  after  the  event,  —  "  Wish 
me  luck,  Dear  Richmond.  Armour  has  just 
brought  me  a  fine  boy  and  girl  at  one  throw. 
God  bless  the  little  dears ! 


'  Green  grow  the  Rashes,  O, 
Green  grow  the  Raslies,  O, 
A  feather  bed  is  no  sae  saft 
As  the  bosoms  o'  the  lasses  O.' 
"MossoiEL,  Sunday,  3d  September,  1786." 

The  more  serious  aspect  of  the  situation  is 
touched  in  a  letter  of  the  8th  September,  to 
Robert  Muir:  "You  will  have  heard  that 
poor  Armour  has  repayed  my  amorous  mort, 
gages  double.  A  very  fine  boy  and  girl  have 
awakened  a  thought  and  feelings  that  thrill, 
some  with  tender  pressure  and  some  with  fore- 
boding anguish  thro'  my  soul."  The  girl  (Jean) 
died  '■  at  fourteen  months  old "  (R.  B.  iu 
Bible) ;  the  boy  (Robert)  died  14th  May,  1857. 


Let  other  heroes  boast  their  scars, 

The  marks  o'  sturt  and  strife. 
But  other  poets  sing  of  wars. 

The  plagues  o'  human  life  ! 
Shame  fa'  the  fun:  wi'  sword  and  gun 

To  slap  mankind  like  lumber  ! 
I  sing  his  name  and  nobler  fame 

W  ha  multiplies  our  number. 


Great  Nature  spoke,  with  air  benign:  — 

"  Go  on,  ye  human  race ; 
This  lower  world  I  you  resign; 

Be  fruitful  and  increase. 
The  liquid  fire  of  strong  desire, 

I  've  poured  it  in  each  bosom ; 
Here  on  this  hand  does  Mankind  stand, 

And  there,  is  Beauty's  blossom  !  " 

III 

The  Hero  of  these  artless  strains, 

A  lowly  Bard  was  he. 
Who  sung  his  rhymes  in  Coila's  plains 

W^ith  meikle  mirth  and  glee: 
Kind  Nature's  care  had  given  his  share 

Large  of  the  flaming  current; 
And,  all  devout,  he  never  sought 

To  stem  the  sacred  torrent. 

IV 

He  felt  the  powerful,  high  behest 

Thrill  vital  thro'  and  thro'; 
And  sought  a  correspondent  breast 

To  give  obedience  due. 
Propitious   Powers    screen'd   the   young 
flow'rs 

From  mildews  of  abortion; 
And  lo  !  the  Bard  —  a  great  reward  — 

Has  got  a  double  portion  ! 


LINES   ON  MEETING  WITH  LORD   DAER 


117 


Auld  cantie  Coil  may  count  the  day, 

As  annual  it  returns, 
The  third  of  Libra's  equal  sway, 

That  gave  another  Burns, 
With  future  rhymes  an'  other  times 

To  emulate  his  sire. 
To  sing  auld  Coil  in  nobler  style 

With  more  poetic  fire  ! 


Ye  Powers  of  peace  and  peaceful  song, 

Look  down  with  gracious  eyes, 
And  bless  auld  Coila  large  and  long 

With  multiplying  joys  ! 
Lang  may  she  stand  to  prop  the  land, 

The  flow'r  of  ancient  nations, 
And  Burnses  spring  her  fame  to  sing 

To  endless  generations  ! 


LINES  ON  MEETING  WITH  LORD 
DAER 

The  Lord  Daer  was  Basil  William  Douglas- 
Hamilton,  second  son  of  the  fourth  Earl  of 
Selkirk.  He  was  born  IGth  March,  1763,  and 
educated  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  where 
he  boarded  with  Professor  Dugald  Stewart, 
whose  guest  he  was  at  Catriue  when  Burns  met 
him  at  dinner.  A  warm  admirer  of  the  French 
Revolution,  he  went  in  1789  to  Paris,  where  he 
lived  in  terms  of  friendship  with  some  of  its 
chief  promoters.  On  his  return  he  joined  the 
Society  of  the  Friends  of  the  People  ;  became 
a  zealous  advocate  of  Reform  ;  and  raised  the 
question  of  the  eligibility  of  Scots  Peers'  sons 
to  vote  in  elections  and  sit  in  the  Commons  (the 
Court  of  Session  decided  against  him  in  1792). 
He  died  of  consumption  at  Ivy  Bridge,  Devon, 
5th  November,  1794. 

Burns,  in  sending  the  lines  to  Mackenzie, 
eulogised  the  Professor,  dividing  his  character 
into  "  ten  parts,  thus :  four  parts  Socrates, 
four  parts  Nathaniel,  and  two  parts  Shake- 
speare's Brutus."  Of  the  verses  he  wrote  that 
they  "  were  really  extempore  but  a  little  cor- 
rected since." 


This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns: 
I,  Rhymer  Rab,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 
A  ne'er-to-be-forgotten  day. 


Sae  far  I  sprachl'd  up  the  brae 
I  dinner'd  wi'  a  Lord. 


I  've  been  at  drucken  Writers'  feasts, 
Nay,  been  bitch-f  ou  'mang  godly  Priests  — 

Wi'  rev'rence  be  it  spoken  !  — 
I  've  even  join'd  the  honor'd  jorum, 
When  mighty  Squireships  o'  the  Quorum 

Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

Ill 

But  wi'  a  Lord  !  —  stand  out  my  shin  ! 
A  Lord,  a  Peer,  an  Earl's  son  !  — 

Up  higher  yet,  my  bonnet  ! 
An'  sic  a  Lord  !  —  lang  Scotch  ell  twa 
Our  Peerage  he  looks  o'er  them  a'. 

As  I  look  o'er  my  sonnet. 


But  O,  for  Hogarth's  magic  pow'r 
To  show  Sir  Bardie's  willyart  glow'r, 

An'  how  he  star'd  an'  stammer'd. 
When,  goavin  's  he  'd  been  led  wi'  brauks, 
An'  stumpin  on  his  ploughman  shanks. 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer'd  ! 


To  meet  good  Stewart  little  pain  is. 
Or  Scotia's  sacred  Demosthenes  : 

Thinks  I:  "  They  are  but  men  "  ! 
But    "  Burns  "  !  _  "  My    Lord  "  !  —  Good 

God  !     I  doited. 
My  knees  on  ane  anither  knoited 

As  faultering  I  gaed  ben. 

VI 

I  sidling  shelter'd  in  a  neuk. 
An'  at  his  Lordship  staw  a  leuk, 

Like  some  portentous  omen: 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee 
An'  (what  surpris'd  me)  modesty, 

I  marked  nought  uncommon. 


I  watch'd  the  symptoms  o'  the  Great  - 
The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming: 
The  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he. 
Nor  sauce,  nor  state,  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman  ! 


Then  from  his  Lordship  I  shall  learn 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 


ii8 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


One  rank  as  well 's  another ; 
Nae  honest,  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  with  noble  youthfu'  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 


ADDRESS  TO   THE   TOOTHACHE 


Mt  curse  upon  your  venom'd  stang, 
That  shoots  my  tortur'd  gooms  alang, 
An'  thro'  my  lug  gies  monie  a  twang 

Wi'  gnawing  vengeance, 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking:  engrines  ! 


A'  down  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle, 
I  throw  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  mickle. 
While  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle 

To  see  me  loup. 
An',  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 

Were  i'  their  doup  ! 


When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes. 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes, 
Our  neebors  sympathise  to  ease  us 

Wi'  pitying  moan; 
But  thee  !  —  thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases, 

They  mock  our  groan  ! 


Of  a'  the  nnm'rous  human  dools  — 
Ill-hairsts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 
Or  worthy  frien's  laid  i'  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see  ! 
The  tricks  o'  knaves,  or  fash  o'  fools  — 

Thou  bear'st  the  gree  ! 


Whare'er  that  place  be  priests  ca'  Hell, 
Whare  a'  the  tones  o'  misery  yell, 
An'  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell 

In  dreadfu'  raw. 
Thou,  Toothache,  surely  bear'st  the  bell 

Amansr  them  a'  ! 


O  thou  grim,  mischief-making  chiel. 
That  gars  the  notes  o'  discord  squeel, 
Till  humankind  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe-tliick, 
Grie  a'  the  faes  o'  Scotland's  weal 

A  towmond's  toothache. 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  ABSENCE  OF 
WILLIAM  CREECH,  PUBLISHER 

Enclosed  in  a  letter  to  "William  Creech, 
Esq..  London,"  dated  l.jth  May,  1787:  '"My 
Honored  Friend  —  the  enclosed  I  have  just 
wrote,  nearly  extempore,  in  a  solitary  Inn  in 
Selkirk,  after  a  miserable,  wet  day's  riding." 

The  son  of  the  Rev.  William  Creech,  minis- 
ter of  Xewbattle,  in  Midlothian,  Creech  was 
bom  21st  April,  174.5.  He  completed  the  Axts 
course  at  the  L'niversity  of  Edinburgh ;  at- 
tended some  medical  lectures ;  was  apprenticed 
to  the  publLshers  Kineaid  and  Bell ;  in  1770 
accompanied  Lord  Kilmaui-s,  afterwards  the 
Earl  of  Glencaim  (and  the  patron  of  Bums) 
on  a  Continental  tour ;  became  partner  with 
Kineaid  in  1771  and  the  firm  itself  in  1773 : 
when  his  shop,  standing  to  the  north  of  St. 
Giles',  was  soon,  in  Cockbum's  phrase,  "the 
natural  resort  of  lawyers,  authors,  and  all  sorts 
of  literary  allies."  In  his  house,  too,  he  held 
literary  gatherings,  which  came  to  be  called 
"  Creech's  levees."  To  his  social  qualities  and 
his  ascendancy  in  literary  and  municipal  Edin- 
burgh the  Lament  bears  witness.  Another 
trait  in  his  character  —  a  combination  of  bad 
business  habits  with  a  certain  keenness  over 
money  —  revealed  itself  in  so  unpleasant  a 
fa.shion  to  Bums,  in  connexion  with  the  settle- 
ment over  the  Poems,  that  the  men's  relations 
were  strained  and  distant  ever  after :  Bums 
from  this  time  forth  addressing  Creech  as 
"Sir,"  and  in  a  fragment  (see  p.  181),  meant 
for  part  of  a  Poefs  Progress,  describing  him  as 

"  A  little,  upright,  pert,  tart,  tripping  wig]it. 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight." 

Before  this,  and  before  writing  the  Lament, 
Bums  had  mastered  all  Creech's  peculiarities ; 
and  in  his  Second  Common  Place  Book  (in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  MacmiUan)  he  gives  a  por- 
trait which  must  be  regarded  as  corrective  of 
eulogy  and  satire  alike:  "My  worthy  book- 
seller, Mr.  Creech,  is  a  strange,  multiform 
character.  His  ruling  passions  of  the  left- 
hand  kind  are  —  extreme  vanity,  and  some- 
thing of  the  more  harmless  modifications  of 
selfishness.  The  one,  mixed  as  it  often  is  with 
great  goodness  of  heart,  makes  him  rush  into 
all  public  matters,  and  take  every  instance  of 
unprotected  merit  by  the  hand,  provided  it  is 
in  his  power  to  hand  it  into  public  notice  ;  the 
other  quality  makes  him,  amid  all  the  em- 
barass  in  which  his  vanity  entangles  him,  now, 
and  then  to  cast  half  a  squint  at  his  own  inter- 
est. His  parts  as  a  man,  his  deportment  as  aJ 
gentleman,  and  his  abilities  as  a  scholar,  are] 
much  above  mediocrity.  Of  all  the  Edinburgh! 
literati  and  wits  he  writes  the  most  like  a  gen- J 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  ABSENCE  OF  WILLIAM  CREECH         119 


tleman.  He  does  not  awe  you  with  the  pro- 
foundness of  the  philosopher,  or  strike  your 
eye  with  the  soarings  of  genius  ;  but  he  pleases 
you  with  the  handsome  turn  of  his  expression, 
and  the  polite  ease  of  his  paragraph.  His 
social  demeanour  and  powers,  particularly  at 
his  own  table,  are  the  most  engaging  I  have 
ever  met  with." 

Creech  was  publisher  of  The  Mirror,  The 
Lounger,  and  the  works  of  the  chief  Scots 
authoi-s  of  his  day.  He  contributed  a  number 
of  Essays  to  The  Edinburgh  Gourant,  which  he 
reprinted  in  a  volume  under  the  title  Fugitive 
Pieces,  1791  (a  second  edition,  published  post- 
humously, with  an  account  of  his  life,  appeared 
in  1875).  His  Account  of  the  Manners  and 
Customs  in  Scotland  between  176o  and  1783, 
originally  contributed  to  the  Courant,  was 
brought  down  to  1793  and  published  in  the 
Statistical  Account  of  Scotland.  He  was  also 
the  author  of  An  Account  of  the  Trial  of  Win. 
Brodie  and  George  Smith  (1780),  having  sat  on 
the  jury  by  which  the  famous  Deacon  was 
tried.  He  was  a  founder  of  the  Speculative 
Society  and  the  Edinburgh  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce. In  1811-13  he  was  Lord  Provost.  He 
died  14th  January,  1815. 


AuLD  chuckle  Reekie 's  sair  distrest, 
Down  droops  her  ance  weel  buruish'd  crest, 
Nae  joy  her  bonie  buskit  nest 

Can  yield  ava  : 
Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo'es  best, 
Willie,  's  awa. 


O,  Willie  was  a  witty  wight, 

And  had  o'  things  an  unco  sleight  ! 

Auld  Reekie  ay  he  keepit  tight 

And  tx"ig  an'  braw; 
But  now  they  '11  busk  her  like  a  fright  — 
Willie  's  awa  ! 


The  stifPest  o'  them  a'  he  bow'd  ; 
The  bauldest  o'  them  a'  he  cow'd; 
They  durst  nae  mair  than  he  allow'd  — 

That  was  a  law: 
We  've  lost  a  birkie  weel  worth  gowd  — 
Willie 's  awa ! 


Now  gawkies,  tawpies,  gowks,  and  fools 
Frae  colleges  and  boarding  schools 
May  sprout  like  simmer  puddock-stools 
In  glen  or  shaw: 


He  wha  could  brush  them  down  to  mools, 
Willie,  's  awa  ! 


The  brethren  o'  the  Commerce-Chaumer 
May  mourn  their  loss  wi'  doolfu'  clamour: 
He  was  a  dictionar  and  grammar 
Amaug  them  a'. 
I  fear  they  '11  now  mak   monie   a  stam- 
mer: 

Willie 's  awa  ! 

VI 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  Poets  pour, 
And  toothy  Critics  by  the  score 
In  bloody  raw: 
The  adjutant  of  a'  the  core, 

Willie,  's  awa  f 


Now  worthy  Greg'ry's  Latin  face, 
Tytler's  and  Greenfield's  modest  grace, 
M'Keuzie,  Stewart,  such  a  brace 

As  Rome  ne'er  saw. 
They  a'  maun  meet  some  ither  place  — 
Willie  's  awa  ! 


Poor  Burns  ev'n   "  Scotch   Drink "  canna 

quicken: 
He  cheeps  like  some  bewilder'd  chicken 
Scar'd  frae  its  miniiie  and  the  cleckin 

By  hoodie-craw. 
Grief  's  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin  — 
Willie  's  awa  ! 


Now  ev'ry  sour-mou'd,  girnin  blellum, 
And  Calvin's  folk,  are  fit  to  fell  him; 
Ilk  self-conceited  critic-skellum 

His  quill  may  draw: 
He  wha  could  brawlie  ward  their  bellum, 
Willie,  's  awa  ! 


L"p  wimpling,  stately  Tweed  I  've  sped. 
And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 
And  Ettrick  banks,  now  roaring  red 

While  tempests  blaw; 
But  every  joy  and  pleasure  's  fled: 

Willie  's  awa ! 

XI 

May  I  be  Slander's  common  speech, 
A  text  for  Infamy  to  preach, 


I20 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


And,  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 

111  winter  snaw, 
When  I  forget  thee,  Willie  Creech, 
Tho'  far  awa  ! 

XII 

May  never  wicked  Fortune  touzle  hiin, 
May  never  wicked  men  bamboozle  him. 
Until  a  pow  as  auld  's  Methusalem 

He  canty  claw  ! 
Then  to  the  blessed  new  Jerusalem 
Fleet-wing  awa ! 


VERSES    IN    FRIARS    CARSE 
HERMITAGE 

This  is  the  first  version  of  the  Hermitage 
verses  (see  ante,  p.  80) ;  that  which  was  ac- 
tually inscribed  on  the  Friars  Carse  window- 
pane  —  now  in  the  Observatory  Museum,  Dum- 
fries. 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead. 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 
Be  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole, 
Grave  these  maxims  on  thy  soul :  — 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 

Sprung  from  night  in  darkness  lost; 

Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour, 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lour. 

Happiness  is  but  a  name, 

Make  content  and  ease  thy  aim. 

Ambition  is  a  meteor-gleam ; 

Fame  a  restless  airy  dream ; 

Pleasures,  insects  on  the  wing 

Round  Peace,  th'  tend'rest  flow'r  of  spring; 

Those  that  sip  the  dew  alone  — 

Make  the  butterflies  thy  own; 

Those  that  would  the  bloom  devour  — 

Crush  the  locusts,  save  the  flower. 

For  the  future  be  prepar'd: 
Guard  whatever  thou  canst  guard; 
But,  thy  utmost  duly  done, 
Welcome  what  thou  canst  not  shun. 
Follies  past  give  thou  to  air  — 
Make  their  consequence  thy  care. 
Keep  the  name  of  Man  in  mind. 
And  dishonour  not  thy  kind. 
Reverence  with  lowly  heart 
Him,  whose  wondrous  work  thou  art; 
Keep  His  Goodness  still  in  view  — 
Thy  trust,  and  thy  example  too. 


Stranger,  go  !  Heaven  be  thy  guide  ! 
Quod  the  Beadsman  on  Nidside. 


ELEGY   ON   THE    DEPARTED 
YEAR    1788 

For  lords  or  kings  I  dinna  mourn ; 

E'en  let  them  die  —  for  that  they  're  born ; 

But  O,  prodigious  to  reflect, 

A  Towmont,  sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck  ! 

O  Eighty-Eight,  in  thy  sma'  space 

What  dire  events  hae  taken  place  ! 

Of  what  enjoyments  thou  hast  reft  us  ! 

In  what  a  pickle  thou  hast  left  us  ! 

The  Spanish  empire  's  tint  a  head. 
An'  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie  's  dead ; 
The  tulyie's  teugh  'tween  Pitt  and  Fox, 
An'  our  guid wife's  wee  birdie  cocks: 
The  tane  is  game,  a  bluidie  devil. 
But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil; 
The  tither  's  dour  —  has  nae  sic  breedin. 
But  better  stuff  ne'er  claw'd  a  midden. 

Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  poupit, 
An'  cry  till  ye  be  haerse  an'  roupet, 
For  Eighty-Eight,  he  wished  you  weel, 
An'  gied  ye  a'  baith  gear  an'  meal: 
E'en  monie  a  plack  and  monie  a  peck. 
Ye  ken  yoursels,  for  little  feck  ! 

Ye  bonis  lasses,  dight  your  een, 
For  some  o'  you  hae  tint  a  frien': 
In  Eighty-Eight,  ye  ken,  was  taen 
What  ye  '11  ne'er  hae  to  gie  again. 

Observe  the  vera  nowte  an'  sheep, 
How  dowff  an'  dowilie  they  creep  ! 
Nay,  even  the  yirth  itsel  does  cry, 
For  Embro'  wells  are  grutten  dry ! 

O  Eighty-Nine,  thou  's  but  a  bairn, 
An'  no  owre  auld,  I  hope,  to  learn! 
Thou  beardless  boy,  I  pray  tak  care, 
Thou  now  has  got  thy  Daddie's  chair: 
Nae    hand-cuff 'd,    mizzl'd,     half-shackl'd 

Regent, 
But,  like  himsel,  a  full  free  agent, 
Be  sure  ye  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  man  ! 
As  muckle  better  as  ye  can. 
January  1,  1789. 


ON   THE   DUCHESS   OF  GORDON'S   REEL  DANCING        121 


CASTLE    GORDON 

Burns  was  introduced  to  the  Duchess  of 
Gordon  in  Edinburgh  (1786-7).  And  during 
his  northern  tour  in  1787  he  called  at  Gordon 
Castle  on  7th  September,  as  recorded  in  his 
Journal:  "Cross  the  Spey  to  Fochabers  —  fine 
palace,  worthy  of  the  noble,  tiie  polite,  the 
generous  proprietor.  Dine.  Company :  Duke 
and  Duchess,  Ladies  Charlotte  and  Madeline  ; 
Colonel  Abercrombie  and  Lady,  Mr.  Gordon, 

and  Mr. ,  a  clergyman,  a  venerable,  aged 

figure,  and  Mr.  Hoy,  a  clergyman  too,  I  sup- 
pose —  pleasant  open  manner.  The  Duke 
makes  me  happier  than  ever  great  man  did  — 
noble,  princely,  yet  mild,  condescending  and 
affable,  gay  and  kind  ;  the  Duchess,  charming, 
■witty,  and  sensible.  God  bless  them."  The 
piece  was  suggested  by  this  visit.  Burns  sent 
it  to  Mr.  Hoy,  the  Duke's  librarian,  who  wrote 
to  him  that  the  Duchess  wished  he  had  written 
in  Scotch.  It  is  worth  recalling  how  the 
Duchess  told  Sir  Walter  that  Burns  was  the 
only  man  she  had  ever  met  whose  conversation 
fairly  "  carried  her  off  her  feet.'' 


Streams  that  glide  in  Orient  plains, 
Never  bound  by  Winter's  chains; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There  immixed  with  foulest  stains 

From  tyranny's  empurpled  hands; 
These,  their  richly  gleaming  waves, 
I  leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves: 
Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks  by  Castle  Gordon. 


Spicy  forests  ever  gay, 
Shading  from  the  burning  ray 

Hapless  wretches  sold  to  toil; 
Or,  the  ruthless  native's  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood  and  spoil; 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 
I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave: 
Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 
The  storms  of  Castle  Gordon. 


Wildly  here  without  control 
Nature  reigns,  and  rules  the  whole; 

In  that  sober  pensive  mood, 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood. 
Life's  poor  day  I  '11,  musing,  rave. 


And  find  at  night  a  sheltering  cave. 
Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave 
By  bonie  Castle  Gordon. 


ON  THE  DUCHESS  OF  GOR- 
DON'S REEL  DANCING 

Published  in  Stuart's  Stariov  the  31st  March 
(1789),  and  here  first  reprinted.  Jane,  Duchess 
of  Gordon,  second  daughter  of  Sir  William 
Maxwell,  third  Baronet  of  MonreJth,  was  born 
in  Hyndford's  Close,  Edinburgh,  in  1746.  She 
was  beautiful,  clever,  witty,  abounding  in 
gaiety  of  temperament,  of  a  most  frolic  habit, 
and  more  or  less  reckless  of  the  proprieties. 
During  her  childhood  a  country  cousin  caught 
her  one  day,  hard  by  her  father's  house,  riding 
an  Edinburgh  pig  —  (Edinburgh  was  largely 
scavengered  by  pigs  in  those  years)  —  her  sis- 
ter (afterwards  Lady  Wallace)  belabouring  her 
mount  with  a  stick.  On  her  marriage  to  Alex- 
ander, Duke  of  Gordon  (1767),  she  became  the 
queen  of  Edinburgh  Society  ;  which,  under  her 
rule,  appears  to  have  been  as  merry  as  cards, 
wine,  suppers,  dances,  late  hours,  and  her  own 
enchanting  example  and  incomparable  energy 
could  make  it ;  while  in  London  her  house  was 
a  chief  resort  for  the  Pittites.  In  1802  she 
went  to  Paris,  with  the  purpose  (so  't  is  said) 
of  making  a  match  between  her  youngest 
daughter  and  Eugene  Beauharnais,  and  re- 
turned to  boast  (so  't  was  reported)  that  Napo- 
leon would  "  breakfast  in  Ireland,  dine  in  Lon- 
don, and  sup  in  Gordon  Castle."  In  her  later 
years  she  lived  apart  from  her  husband.  She 
died  11th  April,  1812. 


She  kiltit  up  her  kirtle  weel 

To  show  her  bonie  cutes  sae  sma', 

And  walloped  about  the  reel, 
The  lightest  louper  o'  them  a'  ! 


While  some,  like  slav'ring,  dotted  stots 
Stoit'ring  out  thro'  the  midden  dub, 

Fankit  their  heels  amang  their  coats 
And  gart  the  floor  their  backsides  rub; 


Gordon,  the  great,  the  gay,  the  gallant, 
Skip't  like  a  maukin  owre  a  dyke: 

Deil  tak  me,  since  I  was  a  callant, 
Gif  e'er  my  een  beheld  the  like ! 


122 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


ON  CAPTAIN  GROSE 

WRITTEN    ON   AN   ENVELOPE   ENCLOSING 
A    LETTER   TO   HIM 

This  amusing  parody  of  the  funny  old  song 
against  tale-telling  travellers  (Herd,  1709)  :  — 

"  Keep  ye  weel  frae  Sir  John  Malcoluie, 
Igo  and  ago 
If  he  's  a  wise  man,  I  mistak  him. 
Iram,  coram,  dago 

I  "  Keep  ye  weel  frae  Sandie  Don, 

Igo  and  ago 
He  'a  ten  times  dafter  than  Sir  John. 
Iram,  coram,  dago  .•  "  — 

was  "  •written  in  a  -wrapper  inclosing  a  letter  to 
Captain  Grose,"  to  be  left  with  Mr.  Cardonncl, 
the  Edinburgh  antiquary.  Only  two  letters 
from  Burns  to  Grose  have  been  published :  one 
recommending  him  to  call  on  Professor  Stew- 
art ;  the  other  on  witch  stories  connected  with 
Alloway  Kirk  (see  ante,  p.  88).  For  a  notice 
of  Captain  Grose,  see  ante,  p.  94. 


Ken  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo  and  ago 
If  he  's  among  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago 


Is  he  south,  or  is  he  north  ? 

Igo  and  ago 
Or  drowned  in  the  River  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago 


Ts  he  slain  by  Hielan'  bodies  ? 

Igo  and  ago 
And  eaten  like  a  wether  haggis  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago 


Is  he  to  Abra'm's  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo  and  ago 
Or  haudin  Sarah  by  the  wame  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago 


Where'er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him  ! 

Igo  and  ago 
As  for  the  Deil,  he  daur  na  steer  him. 

Iram,  coram,  dago 


But  please  transmit  th'  enclosed  letter 

Igo  and  ago 
Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor 

Iram,  coram,  dago 


So  may  ye  hae  auld  stanes  in  store, 
Igo  and  ago 

The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore  ! 
Iram,  coram,  dago 

VIII 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 
Igo  and  ago 

The  coins  o'  Satan's  coronation  ! 
Iram,  coram,  dago 


NEW   YEAR'S    DAY,    1791 

[to    MRS.    DUNLOP] 

Editors  have  taken  for  granted  that  this  was 
written  for  New  Year's  Day,  1790 ;  but  the 
"grandchild"  whose  cap  is  referred  to  was 
probably  the  child  of  Mrs.  Henri,  born  in  No- 
vember, 1790.  Since  also  Mrs.  Dunlop,  on  1st 
January,  1791,  snatched  "  a  few  moments  "  to 
acknowledge  receipt  of  a  letter,  a  poem,  and 
a  gilded  card  from  Burns  (Lochryan  MSS.),  it 
seems  most  likely  that  the  latter  is  the  true 
date. 

Mrs.  Dunlop,  whose  maiden  name  was  Fran- 
ces Anne  Wallace,  was  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Sir  Thomas  Wallace  of  Craigie  (descended 
from  the  uncle  of  the  renowned  leader)  and 
Eleanor  Agnew,  daughter  of  Colonel  Agnew,  of 
Lochryan.  She  was  born  16th  April,  17o0 ; 
married  in  1748  John  Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  Ayr- 
.shire,  who  died  in  1785  ;  succeeded  her  father 
before  July,  1777;  and  died  24th  May,  181.5. 
Being  in  a  state  of  profound  mental  depression 

—  from  which,  she  affirmed,  her  "  onlj'  refuge 
would  have  been  the  nnadhouse  or  the  grave  " 

—  she  fell  to  reading  the  Kilmarnock  volume 

—  the  gift  of  a  friend.  It  had  an  almost  ma- 
gical effect  upon  her  spirits  ;  and,  feeling  her- 
self under  an  "  inexpressible  debt  "  to  Bums 
for  the  relief  thus  experienced,  she  wrote  to 
him  what  proved  to  be  the  initial  letter  of  a 
most  engaging  correspondence,  —  a  correspond- 
ence which  shows  the  poet  at  his  easiest  and 
best  as  a  letter-Avriter  at  the  same  time  that  it 
reveals  the  lady  for  one  of  the  staunchest  and 
kindest  friends  he  ever  had.     The  persona  re- 


FROM   ESOPUS   TO   MARIA 


123 


ferred  to  in  tlie  piece  were  members  of   her 
family. 

This  day  Time  winds  th'  exhausted  chain, 
To  run  the  twelvemonth's  length  again: 
I  see  the  old,  bald-pated  fellow, 
With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 
Adjust  the  uuimpair'd  machine 
To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir. 
In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer: 
Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press. 
Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 
Will  you  (the  Major  's  with  the  hounds; 
The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds; 
Coila  's  fair  Rachel's  care  to-day. 
And  blooming  Keith  's  engaged  with  Gray) 
From  housewife  cares  a  minute  borrow 
(That  grandchild's  cap  will  do  to-morrow), 
And  join  with  me  a-moralizing  ? 
This  day  's  propitious  to  be  wise  in  ! 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver  ? 
"Another  year  has  gone  for  ever." 
And  what  is  this  day's  strong  suggestion  ? 
"  The  passing  moment 's  all  we  rest  on  !  " 
Rest  on  —  for  what  ?  what  do  we  here  ? 
Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 
Will  Time,  amus'd  with  proverb'd  lore, 
Add  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 
A  few  days  may  —  a  few  years  must  — 
Repose  us  in  the  silent  dust  : 
Then,  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss  ? 
Yes :  all  such  reasonings  are  amiss  ! 
The  voice  of  Nature  loudly  cries, 
And  many  a  message  from  the  skies, 
That  something  in  us  never  dies; 
That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state 
Hang  matters  of  eternal  weight; 
That  future  life  in  worlds  unknown 
Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone, 
Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright 
Or  dark  as  Misery's  woeful  night. 

Since,  then,  my  honour'd  first  of  friends. 
On  this  poor  being  all  depends. 
Let  us  th'  important  Now  employ, 
And  live  as  those  who  never  die. 
Tho'  you,  with  days  and  honours  crown'd, 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round 
(A  sight  life's  sorrows  to  repulse, 
A  sight  pale  Envy  to  convulse). 
Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard : 
Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


FROM    ESOPUS    TO    MARIA 

The  "  Maria  "  lampooned  in  this  inept  and 
unmanly  parody  of  Pope's  Epistle  from  Eloisa 
to  Abelard,  in  which  the  writer  gives  himself 
the  lie  all  round  with  distressing  particularity, 
was  Mrs.  Walter  Riddell  of  Woodley  Park, 
whose  favour  he  had  lost  (see  post,  p.  17'^,  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  Impromptu  on  Mrs.  Riddell's 
Birthday).  The  Esopus  was  James  William- 
son, manager  of  the  Dumfries  Theatre,  who, 
like  Burns,  had  been  an  occasional  guest  at 
Woodley  Park.  The  occasion  of  the  piece  was 
the  committal  to  prison  by  the  Earl  of  Lons- 
dale of  Williamson's  company  of  players  as 
vagrants. 

From  those  drear  solitudes  and  frowsy  cells, 
W^here  Infamy  with  sad  Repentance  dwells; 
Where  turnkeys  make  the  jealous   portal 

fast, 
And  deal  from  iron   hands   the   spare  re- 
past; 
Where   truant    'prentices,    yet    young    in 

sin. 
Blush   at    the    curious    stranger    peeping 

in; 
W^here   strumpets,  relics  of    the    drunken 

roar. 
Resolve  to  drink,  nay  half  —  to  whore  — 

no  more; 
Where    tiny  thieves,  not    destin'd   yet   to 

swing, 
Beat  hemp  for  others  riper  for  the  string: 
From  these  dire  scenes  my  wretched  lines 

I  date. 
To  tell  Maria  her  Esopus'  fate. 

"  Alas  !  I  feel  I  am  no  actor  here  ! " 

'T  is  real  hangmen  real  scourges  bear  ! 

Prepare,  Maria,  for  a  horrid  tale 

Will  turn  thy  very  rouge  to  deadly  pale ; 

Will  make  thy  hair,  tho'  erst  from  gipsy 

poU'd, 
By  barber  woven  and  by  barber  sold. 
Though  twisted  smooth  with  Harry's  nicest 

care. 
Like  hoary  bristles  to  erect  and  stare  ! 
The  hero  of  the  mimic  scene,  no  more 
I  start  in  Hamlet,  in  Othello  roar; 
Or,   haughty    Chieftain,   'mid    the   din   of 

arms, 
In  Highland  bonnet  woo  Malvina's  charms: 
While  sans-culottes  stoop  up  the  mountain 

high. 
And  steal  me  from  Maria's  prying  eye. 


124 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Blest  Highland  bonnet !  once  my  proudest 
dress, 

Now,  prouder  still,  Maria's  temples  press  ! 

I  see  her  wave  thy  towering  plumes  afar. 

And  call  each  coxcomb  to  the  wordy  war  ! 

I  see  her  face  the  first  of  Ireland's  sons, 

And  even  out-Irish  his  Hibernian  bronze  ! 

The  crafty  Colonel  leaves  the  tartan'd  lines 

For  other  wars,  where  he  a  hero  shines; 

The  hopeful  youth,  in  Scottish  senate  bred. 

Who  owns  a  Bushby's  heart  without  the 
head, 

Comes  'mid  a  string  of  coxcombs  to  dis- 
play 

That  Veni,  vidi,  vici,  is  his  way; 

The  shrinking  Bard  adown  the  alley 
skulks. 

And  dreads  a  meeting  worse  than  Wool- 
wich hulks, 

Though  there  his  heresies  in  Church  and 
State 

Might  well  award  him  Muir  and  Palmer's 
fate  : 

Still  she,  undaunted,  reels  and  rattles  on, 

And  dares  the  public  like  a  noontide  sun. 

What  scandal  called  Maria's  jaunty  stagger 

The  ricket  reeling  of  a  crooked  swagger  ? 

Whose  spleen  (e'en  worse  than  Burus's 
venom,  when 

He  dips  in  gall  unmix'd  his  eager  pen, 

And  pours  his  vengeance  in  the  burning 
line), 

Who  christen'd  thus  Maria's  lyre-divine, 

The  idiot  strum  of  Vanity  bemus'd, 

And  even  th'  abuse  of  Poesy  abus'd  ? 

Who  called  her  verse  a  Parish  Workhouse, 
made 

For  motley  foundling  Fancies,  stolen  or 
strayed  ? 

A  Workhouse  !  Ah,  that  sound  awakes  my 
woes, 

And  pillows  on  the  thorn  my  rack'd  re- 
pose ! 

In  durance  vile  here  must  I  wake  and 
weep. 

And  all  my  frowsy  couch  in  sorrow  steep  : 

That  straw  where  many  a  rogue  has  lain 
of  yore. 

And  vermin'd  gipsies  litter'd  heretofore. 

Why,  Lonsdale,  thus  thy  wrath  on  vagrants 

pour  ? 
Must  earth  no  rascal  save  thyself  endure  ? 
Must  thou  alone  in  guilt  immortal  swell, 


And  make  a  vast  monopoly  of  Hell  ? 
Thou  know'st  the  Virtues  cannot  hate  thee 

worse : 

The  Vices  also,  must  they  club  their  curse  ? 
Or  must  no  tiny  sin  to  others  fall. 
Because   thy  guilt 's   supreme  enough  for 

all? 

Maria,  send  me  too  thy  griefs  and  cares. 
In  all  of  thee  sure  thy  Esopus  shares  : 
As  thou  at  all  mankind  the  flag  unfurls. 
Who  on  my  fair  one   Satire's  vengeance 

hurls  ! 
Who   calls   thee,  pert,   affected,   vain   co- 
quette, 
A  wit  in  folly,  and  a  fool  in  wit ! 
Who  says  that  fool  alone  is  not  thy  due. 
And    quotes    thy  treacheries   to   prove    it 
true  ! 

Our  force  united  on  thy  foes  we  '11  turn. 
And  dare  the  war  with  all  of  woman  born: 
For  who  can  write  and  speak  as  thou  and  I  ? 
My  periods  that  decyphering  defy, 
And  thy  still  matchless  tongue   that  con- 
quers all  reply ! 


NOTES  AND  EPISTLES 
TO   JOHN    RANKINE 

IN   REPLY   TO   AN   ANNOUNCEMENT 

The  " annonncement "  was  "that  a  girl 
[Elizabeth  Paton]  in  that  neighbourhood  was 
with  child  "  by  Robert  Burns.  The  Epistle  to 
John  Bankine,  ante,  p.  50,  sets  forth  the  se-,^ 
quel. 

I 

I  AM  a  keeper  of  the  law 

In  some  sma'  points,  altho'  not  a'; 

Some  people  tell  me,  gin  I  fa' 

Ae  way  or  ither. 
The  breaking  of  ae  point,  tho'  sma', 

Breaks  a'  thegither. 


I  hae  been  in  for 't  ance  or  twice. 
And  winna  say  o'er  far  for  thrice. 
Yet  never  met  wi'  that  surprise 

That  broke  my  rest. 
But  now  a  rumour  's  like  to  rise  — 

A  whaup  's  i'  the  nest ! 


TO   J.    LAPRAIK 


125 


TO   JOHN    GOLDIE 

AUGUST,    1785 

John  Goldie  or  Goudie  was  the  son  of  a  mill- 
er in  Galston  parish,  Ayrshire,  where  he  was 
born  in  1717.  He  prospered  first  as  a  cabinet- 
maker and  then  as  a  wine  merchant  in  Kilmar- 
nock, but  lost  money  in  mining'  speculations. 
He  died  in  1809.  Much  of  his  leisure  was  given 
to  mechanical  and  scientific  studies ;  but  in 
later  life  he  was  almost  equally  addicted  to 
advanced  theology.  He  published  an  Essay 
on  Various  Important  Subjects  Moral  and  Di- 
vine—  being  an  attempt  to  distinguish  True 
from  False  Beligion,  1779  — popularly  known 
as  Goudie'' s  Bible  (the  issue  of  a  second  edition, 
1785,  was  the  occasion  of  this  Epistle)  ;  The 
Gospel  Recovered  from  its  Captive  State  and  Re- 
stored to  its  Original  Purity,  six  vols.,  London, 
1784 ;  and  A  Treatise  upon  the  Evidences  of  a 
Deity,  1809.  Before  his  death  he  had  prepared 
a  work  on  astronomy.  Burns,  as  laureate  of 
the  New-Light  party,  was  warmly  welcomed  by 
Goldie,  who  became  one  of  his  sureties  for  the 
Kilmarnock  Edition,  and  entertained  him  while 
he  was  seeing  the  book  through  the  press. 


O  Goudie,  terror  o'  the  Whigs, 

Dread  o'  black  coats  and  rev'rend  wigs  ! 

Sour  Bigotry  on  her  last  legs 

Girns  and  looks  back, 
Wishing  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 

May  seize  you  quick. 


Poor  gapin,  glowrin  Superstition  ! 

Wae  's  me,  she  's  in  a  sad  condition  ! 

Fye  !  bring  Black  Jock,  her  state  physician, 

To  see  her  water  ! 
Alas  !  there  's  ground  for  great  suspicion 

She  '11  ne'er  get  better. 


Enthusiasm  's  past  redemption 

Gane  in  a  gallopin  consumption : 

Not  a'  her  quacks  wi'  a'  their  gumption 

Can  ever  mend  her; 
Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption 

She  '11  soon  surrender. 


Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple 
For  every  hole  to  get  a  stapple; 
But  now  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple. 
An'  fights  for  breath: 


Haste,  gie  her  name  up  in  the  chapel. 
Near  unto  death  ! 


'T  is  you  an'  Taylor  are  the  chief 
To  blame  for  a'  this  black  mischief; 
But,  gin  the  Lord's  ain  folk  gat  leave, 

A  toom  tar  barrel 
An'  twa  red  peats  wad  bring  relief. 

And  end  the  quarrel. 


For  me,  my  skill 's  but  very  sma'. 
An'  skill  in  prose  I  've  nane  ava'; 
But,  quietlenswise  between  us  twa, 

Weel  may  ye  speed  ! 
And,  the'  they  sud  you  sair  misca'. 

Ne'er  fash  your  head  ! 


E'en   swinge  the  dogs,  and    thresh    them 

sicker  ! 
The  niair  they  squeel  ay  chap  the  thicker, 
And  still  'mang  hands  a  hearty  bicker 

O'  something  stout ! 
It  gars  an  owthor's  pulse  beat  quicker. 

An'  helps  his  wit. 

VIII 

There  's  naething  like  the  honest  nappy: 
Whare  '11  ye  e'er  see  men  sae  happy, 
Or  women  sonsie,  saft,  and  sappy 

'Tween  morn  and  morn. 
As  them  wha  like  to  taste  the  drappie 

In  glass  or  horn  ? 

IX 

I  've  seen  me  daez't  upon  a  time, 
I  scarce  could  wink  or  see  a  styme; 
Just  ae  hauf-mutchkin  does  me  prime 

(Ought  less  is  little); 
Then  back  I  rattle  on  the  rhyme 

As  gleg  's  a  whittle. 


TO    J.    LAPRAIK 

THIRD    EPISTLE 


GuiD  speed  and  furder  to  you,  Johnie, 
Guid  health,  hale  ban's,  an'  weather  bonie  ! 
Now,  when  ye  're  nickin  down  fu'  cannie 
The  staff  o'  bread, 


126 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


May  ye  ne'er  want  a  stoup  o'  bran'y 
To  clear  youi-  head  ! 


May  Boreas  never  thresh  your  rigs, 
Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 
Seudin  the  stuff  o'er  muirs  an'  haggs 

Like  drivin  wrack  ! 
But  may  the  tapmost  grain  that  wags 

Come  to  the  sack  ! 


I  'm  bizzie,  too,  an'  skelpin  at  it ; 

But  bitter,  daudin  showers  hae  wat  it; 

Sae  my  auld  stumpie-pen,  I  gat  it, 

Wi'  muckle  wark. 
An'  took  my  jocteleg,  an'  whatt  it 

Like  onie  dark. 


It 's  now  twa  month  that  I  'm  your  debtor 
For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter, 
Abusin  me  for  harsh  ill-nature 

On  holy  men. 
While  deil  a  hair  yoursel  ye  're  better, 

But  mair  profane  ! 


But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells! 
Let 's  sing  about  our  noble  sel's: 
We  '11  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 

To  help  or  roose  us, 
But  browster  wives  an'  whisky  stills  — 

They  are  the  Muses  ! 


Your  friendship,  sir,  I  winna  quat  it ; 
An'  if  ye  mak'  objections  at  it, 
Then  hand  in  nieve  some  day  we  '11  knot 
it. 

An'  witness  take; 
An',  when  wi'  usquabae  we  've  wat  it, 

It  winna  break. 


But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spar'd 
Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 
And  a'  the  vittel  in  the  yard 

An'  theckit  right, 
I  mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 

Ae  winter  night. 

VIII 

Then  Muse-inspirin  aqua-vitse 

Shall  mak  us  baith  sae  blythe  an'  witty, 


Till  ye  forget  ye  're  auld  an'  gatty. 
And  be  as  canty 

As  ye  were  nine  year  less  than  thretty  • 
Sweet  ane  an'  twenty  ! 


But  stooks  are  cowpet  wi'  the  blast. 
And  now  the  sinn  keeks  in  the  wast ; 
Then  I  maun  rin  amang  the  rest, 

An'  quat  my  chanter; 
Sae  I  subscribe  mysel  in  haste. 

Yours,  Rab  the  Ranter. 
September  13,  1785. 


TO   THE   REV.   JOHN    M'MATH 

INXLOSING  A  COPY  OF  "  HOLY  WILLIE's 
PRAYER  "  WHICH  HE  HAD  REQUESTED, 
SEPTEMBER    I  J,    I  785 


While  at  the  stock  the  shearers  cow'r 
To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin  show'r, 
Or,  in  gulravage  rinnin,  scowr: 

To  pass  the  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 

In  idle  rhyme. 


My  Musie,  tir'd  wi'  monie  a  sonnet 

On  gown  an'  ban'  an'  douse  black-bonnet. 

Is  grown  right  eerie  now  she  's  done  it. 

Lest  they  should  blame  her, 
An'  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it. 

And  anath^m  her. 


I  own  't  was  rash,  an'  rather  hardy, 
That  I,  a  simple,  countra  Bardie, 
Should  meddle  wi'  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me. 
Can  easy  wi'  a  single  wordie 

Louse  Hell  upon  me. 

IV 

But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces. 
Their  sighin,  cantin,  grace-proud  faces. 
Their   three-mile   prayers    an'   hauf-mile 
graces. 

Their  raxin  conscience, 
Wbase  greed,  revenge,  an'  pride  disgraces 

Waur  nor  their  nonsense. 


TO    DAVIE 


127 


Tliere  's  Gau'n,  misca'd  waur  than  a  beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honor  in  his  breast 
Than  nionie  scores  as  guid  's  the  priest 

Wha  sae  abus't  him: 
And  may  a  Bard  no  crack  his  jest 

What  way  they  've  use't  him  ? 


See  him,  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  an'  deed  — 
An'  shall  his  fame  an'  honor  bleed 

By  worthless  skelliims, 
An'  not  a  Muse  erect  her  head 

To  cowe  the  blellums  ? 


0  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts 
To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 

1  'd  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts, 

An'  tell  aloud 
Their  jugglin,  hocus-pocus  arts 
To  cheat  the  crowd  ! 


God  knows,  I  'm  no   the    thing   I   should 

be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be. 
But  twenty  times  I  rather  would  be 

An  atheist  clean 
Than  under  gospel  colors  hid  be 

Just  for  a  screen. 

IX 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass. 
An  honest  man  may  like  a  lass; 
But  mean  revenge  an'  malice  fause 

He  '11  still  disdain 
An'  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws 

Like  some  we  ken. 


They  take  Religion  in  their  mouth. 
They  talk  o'  Mercy,  Grace,  an'  Trutli : 
For  what  ?     To  gie  their  malice  skouth 

On  some  puir  wight; 
An'  hunt  him  down,  o'er  right  an'  ruth. 

To  ruin  streijrht. 


All  hail,  Beligion  !  Maid  divine. 
Pardon  a  Muse  sae  mean  as  mine. 
Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee 


To  stigmatise  false  friends  of  thine 
Can  ne'er  defame  thee. 


XII 

Tho'  blotch't  and  foul  wi'  monie  a  stain 

An'  far  unworthy  of  thy  train, 

With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 

To  join  with  those 
Who  boldly  dare  thy  cause  maintain 
In  spite  of  foes: 


In  spite  o'  crowds,  in  spite  o'  mobs. 
In  spite  of  undermining  jobs, 
In  spite  o'  dark  banditti  stabs 

At  worth  an'  merit. 
By  scoundrels,  even  wi'  holy  robes 

But  hellish  spirit  ! 


O  Ayr  !  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 
Within  thy  presbyterial  bound 
A  candid  lib'ral  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers. 
As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renown'd, 

An'  manly  preachers. 


Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  nam'd ; 
Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  fam'd; 
An'  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine  's  blam'd 

(Which  gies  ye  honor). 
Even,  Sir,  by  them  your  heart 's  esteem'd, 

An'  winning  manner. 


Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  taen, 
An'  if  impertinent  I  've  been, 
Impute  it  not,  good  sir,  in  ane 

Whase  heart  ne'er  wrang  d  ye, 
But  to  his  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belang'd  ye. 


TO    DAVIE 

SECOND   EPISTLE 


AuLD  Neebor, 
I  'm  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor 
For  your  auld-farrant,  frien'ly  letter; 
Tho'  I  maun  say  't,  I  doubt  ye  flatter, 
Ye  speak  sae  fair: 


T28 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymin  clatter 
Some  less  maun  saix. 


Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle  ! 
Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  an'  diddle 
To  cheer  you  thro'  the  weary  widdle 

O'  war'ly  cares, 
Till  bairns'  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld  grey  hairs  ! 


But  Davie,  lad,  I  'm  red  ye 're  glaikit: 
I  'm  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hae  negleckit; 
An'  gif  it 's  sae,  ye  sud  be  lickit 

Until  ye  fyke; 
Sic  ban's  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faiket, 

Be  hain't  wha  like. 

IV 
For  me,  I  'm  on  Parnassus'  brink, 
Rivin  the  words  to  gar  them  clink; 
Whyles  daez't  wi'  love,  whyles  daez't  wi' 
drink 

Wi'  jads  or  Masons, 
An'  whyles,  but  ay  owre  late  I  think, 
Braw  sober  lessons. 


Of  a'  the  thoughtless  sons  o'  man 
Commen'  me  to  the  Bardie  clan: 
Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

O'  rhymin  clink  — 
The  devil-haet  that  I  sud  ban  !  — 

They  never  think. 


Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o'  livin, 
Nae  cares  to  gie  us  joy  or  grievin. 
But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in, 

An'  while  ought 's  there, 
Then,  hiltie-skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin, 

An'  fash  nae  mair. 


VII 

rhyme  ! 


It 


ay 


a  trea- 


Leeze   me   on 

sure, 
My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure; 
At  hame,  a-fiel',  at  wark  or  leisure, 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie  ! 
Tho'  rough  an'  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She  's  seldom  lazy. 

VIII 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie : 
The  warl'  may  play  you  monie  a  shavie, 


But  for  the  Muse,  she  '11  never  leave  ye, 
Tho'  e'er  sae  puir; 

Na,  even  tho'  limpin  wi'  the  spavie 
Frae  door  to  door  ! 


TO  JOHN    KENNEDY,  DUMFRIES 
HOUSE 

Kennedy  was  factor  to  the  Earl  of  Dumfries, 
and  resided  at  Dumfries  House,  two  miles  west 
of  Ciunnock.  He  died  at  Edinburgh,  19th 
June,  1812.  The  first  part  of  the  letter  is  in 
prose,  and  refers  to  a  copy  of  The  Cotter's  Sat- 
urday Night  enclosed  to  Kennedy.  Bums  sent 
other  pieces  to  him  ;  and  either  he  or  M"Murdo 
is  the  "  Factor  John  "  of  The  Kirk's  Alarm. 
see  ante,  p.  113. 


Now,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse 
E'er  bring  you  in  by  Mauchlin  Corss 
(Lord,  man,  there  's  lasses  there  wad  force 

A  hermit's  fancy; 
And  down  the  gate  in  faith  !  they  're  worse 

An'  mair  unchancy) : 


But  as  I  'm  sayin,  please  step  to  Dew's, 
An'  taste  sic  gear  as  Johnie  brews. 
Till  some  bit  callan  bring  me  news 

That  ye  are  there; 
An'  if  we  dinna  hae  a  bowse, 

I  'se  ne'er  drink  mair. 


It 's  no  I  like  to  sit  an'  swallow. 
Then  like  a  swine  to  puke  an'  wallow; 
But  gie  me  just  a  true  guid  fallow 

Wi'  right  ingine, 
And  spunkie  ance  to  mak  us  mellow, 

An'  then  we  '11  shine  ! 


Now  if  ye  're  ane  o'  warl's  folk, 
Wha  rate  the  wearer  by  the  cloak, 
An'  sklent  on  poverty  their  joke 

Wi'  bitter  sneer, 
Wi'  you  nae  friendship  I  will  troke, 

Nor  cheap  nor  dear. 


But  if,  as  I  'm  informed  weel, 
Ye  hate  as  ill 's  the  vera  Deil 


TO   MR.   M'ADAM  OF  CRAIGEN-GILLAN 


129 


The  flinty  heart  that  canua  feel  — 

Come,  sir,  here  's  tae  you  ! 
Hae,  there  's  my  han',  I  wiss  you  weel. 
An'  Gude  be  wi'  you  • 

ROBT.  BURNESS. 
MossoiKL,  3d  March,  1786. 


TO   GAVIN    HAMILTON,    ESQ., 
MAUCHLINE 

RECOMMENDING   A    BOY 

Cromek   states    that    Master  Tootle  was    a 
knavish  cattle-dealer  in  Mauchline. 

MossGAViLLB,  May  3,  1786. 

I  HOLD  it,  Sir,  my  bounden  duty 

To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootie, 

Alias  Laird  M'Gaun, 
Was  liere  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
'Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day, 

An'  wad  hae  don't  afE  han'; 
But  lest  he  learn  the  callan  tricks  — 

As  faith  !  I  muckle  doubt  him  — 
Like  scrapin  out  auld  Crummie's  nicks. 
An'  tellin  lies  about  them. 
As  lieve  then,  I  'd  have  then 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair. 
If  sae  be  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  otherwhere. 

Altho'  I  say  't,  he  's  gleg  enough. 

An'  bout  a  house  that 's  rude  an'  rough 

The  boy  might  learn  to  swear; 
But  then  wi'  you  he  '11  be  sae  taught. 
An'  get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I  hae  na  onie  fear: 
Ye  '11  catechise  him  every  quirk. 

An'  shore  him  weel  wi'  "  Hell;  " 
An'  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk  — 
Ay  when  ye  gang  yoursel  ! 
If  ye,  then,  maun  be  then 

Frae  hame  this  comin  Friday, 
Then  please.  Sir,  to  lea'e,  Sir, 
The  orders  wi'  your  lady. 

My  word  of  honour  I  hae  gien, 

In  Paisley  John's  that  night  at  e'en 

To  meet  the  "  warld's  worm," 
To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 
An'  name  the  airles  an'  the  fee 

In  legal  mode  an'  form: 
I  ken  he  weel  a  snick  can  draw, 

When  simple  bodies  let  him; 


An'  if  a  Devil  be  at  a', 

In  faith  he  's  sure  to  get  him. 
To  phrase  you  an'  praise  you, 

Ye  ken,  your  Laureat  scorns: 
The  pray'r  still  you  share  still 
Of  grateful  Minstrel  Burns. 


TO    MR. 


MADAM    OF 
GILLAN 


CRAIGEN- 


IN  ANSWER  TO  AN  OBLIGING  LETTER 
HE  SENT  IN  THE  COMMENCEMENT  OF 
MY    POETIC   CAREER 

There  is  no  evidence  that  Burns  had  any 
further  correspondence  with  this  M'Adam, 
whose  letter  no  doubt  referred  to  the  Kilmar- 
nock Edition.  The  son  ("  Dunaskin's  laird  "  of 
stanza  vii.)  is  alluded  to  in  the  Second  Heron 
Ballad,  p.  166,  stanza  vii.  line  8,  as  "  o'  lads  no 
the  warst." 


Sir,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card, 
I  trow  it  made  me  proud. 

"  See  wha  taks  notice  o'  the  Bard  !  " 
I  lap,  and  cry'd  fu'  loud. 


Now  deil-ma-care  about  their  jaw. 
The  senseless,  gawky  million  ! 

I  '11  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a': 
I  'm  roos'd  by  Craigen-Gillan  ! 


'T  was  noble,  sir;  't  was  like  yoursel. 
To  grant  your  high  protection : 

A  great  man's  smile,  ye  ken  fu'  well, 
Is  ay  a  blest  infection. 


Tho',  by  his  banes  wha  in  a  tub 
Match'd  Macedonian  Sandy  ! 

On  my  ain  legs  thro'  dirt  and  dub 
I  independent  stand  ay; 


And  when  those  legs  to  guid  warm  kail 
Wi'  welcome  canna  bear  me, 

A  lee  dyke-side,  a  sj-bow-tail. 
An'  barley-scone  shall  cheer  me. 


Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  the  breath 
O'  monie  flow'ry  simmers, 


13° 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


All'  bless  your  bouie  lasses  baith 

(I  'm  tauld  they  're  loosome  kimmers)  ! 


An'  God  bless  young  Dunaskin's  laird, 
The  blossom  of  our  gentry. 

An'  may  he  wear  an  auld  man's  beard, 
A  credit  to  his  country  ! 


REPLY    TO    AN    INVITATION 
Written  doubtless  in  a  tavern. 

Sm, 

Yours  this  moment  I  unseal, 

And  faith  !  I  'm  gay  and  hearty. 
To  tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  Deil, 

I  am  as  fou  as  Bartie. 
But  Foorsday,  Sir,  my  promise  leal, 

Expect  me  o'  your  partie. 
If  on  a  beastie  I  can  speel 

Or  hurl  in  a  cartie. 

Yours,  —  Robert  Burns. 

Machlin,  Monday  Night,  10  o'clock. 


TO    DR.   MACKENZIE 

AN  INVITATION  TO  A  MASONIC  GATHERING 

Dr.  John  Mackenzie  —  one  of  the  poet's 
■warmest  friends  —  practised  at  Mauchline,  on 
completing  his  medical  course  at  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  He  has  recorded,  in  a  letter  to 
Professor  Walker  (often  reprinted),  his  first 
impressions  of  Bums,  whom  he  met  during 
the  last  illness  of  William  Burness.  After 
removing  to  Mossgiel,  Bums  had  frequent 
opportunities  of  meeting  him  at  Gavin  Hamil- 
ton's, the  Masonic  Lodge,  and  elsewhere  ;  and 
he  introduced  the  poet  to  Sir  John  White- 
foord,  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  and  other 
persons  of  influence.  At  a  later  period  Mac- 
kenzie settled  at  Irvine,  and  in  1*^27  he  retired 
to  Edinburgh,  where  he  died  11th  January, 
1837.  For  Bums's  connexion  with  the  lodge, 
see  ante.  p.  53,  Prefatory  Note  to  The  Fare- 
well. He  was  then  depute-master,  and  so  signs 
himself ;  the  procession  referred  to  in  the  note 
took  place  on  24th  June.  The  Masonic  date 
signifies  1786. 

Friday  first 's  the  day  appointed 
Bj'  our  Right  Worshipful  Anointed 

To  hold  our  grand  procession, 
To  get  a  blaud  o'  Johnie's  morals. 


An'  taste  a  swatch  o'  Hanson's  barrels 

I'  th'  way  of  our  profession. 
Our  Master  and  the  Brotherhood 

Wad  a'  be  glad  to  see  you. 
For  me,  I  wad  be  mair  than  proud 
To  share  the  mercies  wi'  you. 
If  Death,  then,  wi'  skaith  then 

Some  mortal  heart  is  hechtin, 
Inform  him,  an'  storm  him. 
That  Saturday  ye  '11  fecht  him. 

Robert  Burns,  D.  M. 

Mossgiel,  14th  June,  a.m.  5700. 


TO   JOHN    KENNEDY 

A   FAREWELL 

Forms  the  end  of  a  letter  sent  from  Kilmar- 
nock, undated,  but  written  some  time  between 
the  3d  and  16th  August.  Bums  tells  Ken- 
nedy that  he  is  about  to  set  out  for  Jamaica, 
and  is  in  daily  expectation  of  orders  to  repair 
to  Greenock.  Hence  these  last  lines.  For 
Kennedy  see  ante,  p.  128,  Prefatory  Note  to  To 
John  Kennedy. 

Farewell,  dear  friend  !   may  guid  luck 

hit  you. 
And  'mong  her  favourites  admit  you  1 
If  e'er  Detraction  shore  to  smit  you, 

May  nane  believe  him  ! 
And  onie  deil  that  thinks  to  get  you, 
Good  Lord,  deceive  him  ! 


TO  WILLIE  CHALMERS'  SWEET- 
HEART 

Sent  to  Lady  Harriet  Don  with  this  expla- 
nation :  "  Mr.  Chalmers,  a  gentleman  in  Ayr- 
shire, a  particular  friend  of  mine,  asked  me  to 
write  a  poetic  epistle  to  a  young  lady,  his  Dul- 
ciuea.     I  had  seen  her,  but  was  scarcely  ac- 
quainted with  her,  and  wrote  as  follows."     On 
20th   November,    1786,    Bums,   as   "  Bard-in- 
Chief"   of   Kyle,   Cunningham,   and    Carrick, 
sent  to  Chalmers  and  another  practitioner  '"  in 
the    ancient   and    mysterious    science    of  con- 
founding right  and  wrong,"  a  warrant  for  the 
destruction  of  a  certain  "  wicked  song  or  balj 
lad."     He    also  wrote    Chalmers   a   hnmorou 
letter  on  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  enclosing  i 
copy  of  his  Address  to  that  city.     Chalmei 
was  a  lawyer  in  Ayr. 


EXTEMPORE  TO   GAVIN   HAMILTON 


131 


Wi'  braw  new  branks  in  mickle  pride, 

And  eke  a  braw  new  brechan, 
My  Pegasus  I  'm  got  astride, 

And  up  Parnassus  pecbin: 
Whyles  owre  a  bush  wi'  downward  crush 

The  doited  beastie  stammers; 
Then  up  he  gets,  and  off  he  sets 

For  sake  o'  Willie  Chalmers. 


I  doubt  na,  lass,  that  weel  kend  name 

May  cost  a  pair  o'  blushes: 
I  am  nae  stranger  to  your  fame, 

Nor  his  warm-urg^d  wishes : 
Your  bonie  face,  sae  mild  and  sweet, 

His  honest  heart  enamours; 
And  faith !  ye  '11  no  be  lost  a  whit, 

Tho'  waLr'd  on  Willie  Chalmers. 

Ill 

Auld  Truth  hersel  might  swear  ye  're  fair, 

And  Honor  safely  back  her; 
And  Modesty  assume  your  air, 

And  ne'er  a  ane  mistak  her; 
And  sic  twa  love-inspiring  een 

Might  fire  even  holy  palmers : 
Nae  wonder  then  they  've  fatal  been 

To  honest  Willie  Chalmers  ! 

IV 

I  doubt  na  Fortune  may  you  shore 

Some  mim-mou'd,  pouther'd  priestie, 
Fu'  lifted  up  wi'  Hebrew  lore 

And  band  upon  his  breastie; 
But  O,  what  signifies  to  you 

His  lexicons  and  grammars  ? 
The  feeling  heart 's  the  royal  blue, 

And  that 's  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 


Some  gapin,  glowrin  countra  laird 

May  warsle  for  your  favour: 
May  claw  his  lug,  and  straik  his  beard, 

And  hoast  up  some  palaver. 
My  bonie  maid,  before  ye  wed 

Sic  clumsy-witted  hammers, 
Seek  Heaven  for  help,  and  barefit  skelp 

Awa  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 


Forgive  the  Bard  !     My  fond  regard 
I         For  ane  that  shares  my  bosom 
1       Inspires  my  Muse  to  gie  'm  his  dues, 
For  deil  a  hair  I  roose  him. 


May  Powers  aboon  unite  you  soon, 
And  fructify  your  dmours, 

And  every  year  come  in  mair  dear 
To  you  and  Willie  Chalmers  ! 


TO   AN    OLD    SWEETHEART 

WRITTEN    ON   A    COPY    OF    HIS    POEMS 

The  sweetheart  was  Pegg-y  Thomson  of 
Kirkoswald  (see  ante,  p.  52,  Prefatory  Note 
to  Song  Composed  in  August).  Thus  prefaced 
in  the  Glenriddell  Book :  "  Written  on  the 
blank  leaf  of  a  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  my 
Poems  which  I  presented  to  an  old  sweetheart, 
then  married.  ' T  was  the  girl  I  mentioned  in 
my  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  where  I  speak  of  tak- 
ing the  sun's  altitude.  Poor  Peggy !  Her 
husband  is  my  old  acquaintance,  and  a  most 
worthy  fellow.  When  I  was  taking  leave  of 
my  Carrick  relations,  intending-  to  go  to  the 
West  Indies,  when  I  took  farewell  of  her, 
neither  she  nor  I  could  speak  a  syllable.  Her 
husband  escorted  me  three  miles  on  my  road, 
and  we  both  parted  with  tears." 


Once   fondly  lov'd  and  still   remember'd 
dear. 
Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows, 
Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm,  sin- 
cere — 
(Friendship  !   't  is  all  cold  duty  now  al- 
lows) ; 


And   when   you   read   the   simple    artless 
rhymes. 
One  friendly  sigh  for  him  —  he  asks  no 
more  — 
Who,  distant,  burns  in  flaming  torrid  climes, 
Or  haply  lies  beneath  th'  Atlantic  roar. 


EXTEMPORE  TO  GAVIN  HAMIL- 
TON 

STANZAS   ON    NAETHING 


To  you.  Sir,  this  summons  I  've  sent 

(Pray,  whip  till   the  pownie   is   fraeth- 
ing  !) ; 


132 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


But  if  you  demand  what  I  want, 
I  honestly  answer  you  —  naething. 


Ne'er  scorn  a  poor  Poet  like  me 
For  idly  just  living  and  breathing, 

While  people  of  every  degree 

Are  busy  employed  about  —  naething. 

Ill 

Poor  Centum-per-Centum  may  fast. 

And  grumble  his  hurdies  their  claithing; 

He  '11  find,  when  the  balance  is  cast, 
He  's  gane  to  the  Devil  for  —  naething. 


The  courtier  cringes  and  hows; 

Ambition  has  likewise  its  plaything  — 
A  coronet  beams  on  his  brows; 

And  what  is  a  coronet  ?  —  Naething. 


Some  quarrel  the  Presbyter  gown, 
Some  quarrel  Episcopal  graithing  ; 

But  every  good  fellow  will  own 
The  quarrel  is  a'  about  —  naething. 


The  lover  may  sparkle  and  glow, 

Approaching  his  bonie  bit  gay  thing  ; 

But  marriage  will  soon  let  him  know 
He  's  gotten  —  a  buskit-up  naething. 

VII 

The  Poet  may  jingle  and  rhyme 
In  hopes  of  a  laureate  wreathing, 

And  when  he  has  wasted  his  time, 

He  's  kindly  rewarded  with  —  naething. 


The  thundering  bully  may  rage, 

And  swagger  and  swear  like  a  heathen; 
But  collar  him  fast,  I  '11  engage. 

You  '11  find  that   his  courage   is  —  nae- 
thing. 

IX 

Last  night  with  a  feminine  Whig  — 

A  poet  she  couldna  put  faith  in  ! 
But  soon  we  grew  lovingly  big, 

I  taught   her,  her   terrors   were  —  nae- 
thing. 

X 

Her  Whigship  was  wonderful  pleased. 
But  charmingly  tickled  wi'  ae  thing; 


Her  fingers  I  lovingly  squeezed, 

And   kissed   her,    and   promised   her  — 
naething. 


The  priest  anathemas  may  threat  — 
Predicament,  sir,  that  we  're  baith  in; 

But  when  Honor's  reveille  is  beat. 
The  holy  artillery  's  —  naething. 


And  now  I  must  mount  on  the  wave: 
My  voyage  perhaps  there  is  death  in; 

But  what  is  a  watery  grave  ? 

The  drowning  a  Poet  is  —  naething. 

XIII 

And  now,  as  grim  Death  's  in  my  thought, 
To  you.  Sir,  I  make  this  bequeathing: 

My  service  as  long  as  ye  've  ought, 

And  my  friendship,  by  God,  when  ye  've 
—  naething. 


REPLY   TO    A    TRIMMING   EPIS- 
TLE RECEIVED  FROM  A  TAILOR 

The  tailor  was  one  Thomas  Walker,  who  re- 
sided at  Pool,  near  Ochiltree.  His  remon- 
strance, with  Burns's  Reply,  ajjpeared  in  one 
of  the  tracts  "  printed  for  and  sold  by  Stewart 
and  Meikle."  Scott  Douglas,  who  had  seen 
the  tailor's  manuscripts,  concludes  that  Simp- 
son of  Ochiltree  (see  ante,  p.  47,  Prefatory  Note 
to  Epistle  to  William  Simpson)  had  as  much 
to  do  with  the  composition  of  his  Epistle  as 
himself. 


What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousie  bitch, 
To  thresh  my  back  at  sic  a  pitch  ? 
Losh,  man,  hae  mercy  wi'  your  natch  ! 

Your  bodkin's  bauld: 
I  didna  sufPer  half  sae  much 

Frae  Daddie  Auld. 


What  tho'  at  times,  when  I  grow  crouse, 
I  gie  their  wames  a  random  pouse, 
Is  that  enough  for  you  to  souse 

Your  servant  sae  ? 
Gae  mind  your  seam,  ye  prick-the-louse 

An'  jag-the-flae ! 


I 


TO   MAJOR  LOGAN 


133 


III 

King  David  o'  poetic  brief 

Wrocht  'maug  the  lassies  sic  mischief 

As  fiird  his  after-life  with  grief 

An'  bloody  rants; 
An'  yet  he  's  rank'd  amang  the  chief 

O'  laug-syne  sauuts. 


And  maybe,  Tam,  for  a'  my  cants, 
My  wicked  rhymes  an'  drueken  rants, 
I'll  gie  auld  Cloven-Clootie's  haunts 

An  unco  slip  yet. 
An'  snugly  sit  amang  the  saunts 

At  Davie's  hip  yet ! 


But,  fegs  !  the  Session  says  I  maun 

Gae  fa'  upo'  anither  plan 

Than  garrin  lasses  coup  the  cran, 

Clean  heels  owre  body, 
An'  sairly  thole  their  mither's  ban 

Afore  the  howdy. 


This  leads  me  on  to  tell  for  sport 
How  I  did  wi'  the  Session  sort: 
Auld  Clinkum  at  the  inner  port 

Cried  three  times  :  —  "  Robin  ! 
Come  hither  lad,  and  answer  for  't, 

Ye  're  blam'd  for  jobbiu  ! " 

VII 
Wi'  pinch  I  put  a  Sunday's  face  on. 
An*  snoov'd  awa'  before  the  Session: 
I  made  an  open,  fair  confession  — 

I  scorn'd  to  lie  — 
An'  syne  Mess  John,  beyond  expression, 

FeU  foul  o'  me. 


A  fornicator-loun  he  call'd  me. 

An'  said  my  faut  frae  bliss  expell'd  me. 

I  own'd  the  tale  was  true  he  tell'd  me, 

"  But,  what  the  matter?  " 
(Quo'  I)  "  I  fear  unless  ye  geld  me, 

I  '11  ne'er  be  better  !  " 


«  Geld  you  !  "  (quo'  he)  "  an'  what  for  no  ? 
If  that  your  right  hand,  leg,  or  toe 
Should  ever  prove  your  sp'ritual  foe 

You  should  remember 
To  cut  it  aff ;  an'  what  for  no 

Youx  dearest  member  ?  " 


"  Na,  na  "  (quo'  I),  "  I  'm  no  for  that, 
Gelding  's  nae  better  than  't  is  ca't; 
I  'd  rather  suffer  for  my  faut 

A  hearty  flewit. 
As  sair  owre  hip  as  ye  can  draw  't, 

Tho'  I  should  rue  it. 

XI 
"  Or,  gin  ye  like  to  end  the  bother, 
To  please  us  a'  —  I  've  just  ae  ither: 
When  next  wi'  you  lass  I  forgather, 

Whate'er  betide  it, 
I  '11  frankly  gie  her  't  a'  thegither. 
An'  let  her  guide  it." 

XII 
But,  Sir,  this  pleas'd  them  warst  of  a', 
An'  therefore,  Tam,  when  that  I  saw, 
I  said  "  Guid-night,"  an'  cam  awa. 

An'  left  the  Session: 
I  saw  they  were  resolved  a' 

On  my  oppression. 


TO    MAJOR    LOGAN 

Major  William  Logan,  a  retired  soldier,  of 
some  repute  as  fiddler  and  wit,  who  lived  at 
Park,  near  Ayr,  must  not  he  confounded  with 
John  Log'an  of  Afton  and  Knockshinnoch  (the 
"  Afton's  Laird  "  of  The  Kirk's  Alarm,  p.  113), 
with  whom  Burns  also  corresponded. 


Hail,  thairm-inspirin,  rattlin  Willie  ! 
Tho'  Fortune's  road  be  rough  an'  hillj 
To  every  fiddling,  rhyming  billie. 

We  never  heed. 
But  take  it  like  the  unbrack'd  filly 

Proud  o'  her  speed. 


When,  idly  goavin,  whyles  we  saunter, 
Yirr  !     Fancy  barks,  awa  we  canter. 
Up  hill,  down  brae,  till  some  mishanter. 

Some  black  bog-hole. 
Arrests  us;  then  the  scathe  an'  banter 

We  're  forced  to  thole. 


Hale  be  your  heart  !  hale  be  your  fiddle  I 
Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  an'  diddle. 


134 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  wicldle 
O'  this  vile  warl', 

Until  you  on  a  cummock  diiddle, 
A  grey-hair'd  carl. 


Come  wealth,  come  poortith,  late  or  soon, 
Heaven  send  your  heart-strings  ay  iu  tune, 
And  screw  your  temper-pins  aboon 

(A  fifth  or  mair) 
The  melancholious,  sairie  croon 

O'  cankrie  Care. 


May  still  your  life  from  day  to  day, 
Nae  lente  largo  in  the  play 
But  allegretto  forte  gay. 

Harmonious  flow, 
A  sweeping,  kindling,  bauld  strathspey  — 

Encore !  Bravo ! 


A'  blessings  on  the  cheery  gang, 
Wha  dearly  like  a  jig  or  sang, 
An'  never  think  o'  right  an'  wrang 

By  square  an'  rule, 
But  as  the  clegs  o'  feeling  stang 

Are  wise  or  fool. 


My  hand-wal'd  curse  keep  hard  in  chase 
The  harpy,  hoodock,  purse-proud  race, 
Wha  count  on  poortith  as  disgrace  ! 

Their  tuneless  hearts, 
May  fireside  discords  jar  a  bass 

To  a'  their  parts  ! 


But   come,   your   hand,    my    careless   bri- 

ther  ! 
I'  th'  ither  warl',  if  there  's  anither  — 
An'  that  there  is,  I  've  little  swither 

About  the  matter  — 
We,  cheek  for  chow,  shall  jog  thegither  — 

I  'se  ne'er  bid  better  ! 

IX 
We  've  faults  and  failins  —  granted  clear- 
ly ! 
We  're  frail,  backsliding  mortals  merely  ; 
Eve's    bonie    squad,    priests    wyte    them 
sheerly 

For  our  grand  fa'  ; 
But  still,  but  still  —  I  like  them  dearly  .  .  . 
God  bless  them  a' ! 


Ochon  for  poor  Castalian  drinkers, 
When  they  fa'  foul  o'  earthly  jiiikers  I 
The  witching,  curs'd,  delicious  blinkers 

Hae  put  me  hyte. 
An'  gart  me  weet  my  waukiife  winkers 

Wi'  girnin  spite. 

XI 

But    by    yon     moon  —  and    that 's    high 

swearin  !  — 
An'  every  star  within  my  hearin. 
An'  by  her  een  wha  was  a  dear  ane 

I  '11  ne'er  forget, 
I  hope  to  gie  the  jads  a  clearin 

In  fair  play  yet ! 


My  loss  I  mourn,  but  not  repent  it; 
I  '11  seek  my  pursie  whare  I  tint  it; 
Ance  to  the  Indies  I  were  wonted. 

Some  cantraip  hour 
By  some  sweet  elf  I  '11  yet  be  diuted: 

Then  vive  I'amour  ! 

XIII 

Faites  mes  haissemains  respectueuse 

To  sentimental  sister  Susie 

And  honest  Lucky:  no  to  roose  you, 

Ye  may  be  proud. 
That  sic  a  couple  Fate  allows  ye 

To  grace  your  blood. 

XIV 

Nae  mair  at  present  can  I  measure. 
An'  trowth  !    my  rhymin  ware  's  nae  trea- 
sure ; 
But  when  in  Ayr,  some  half-hour's  leisure, 

Be  't  light,  be  't  dark. 
Sir  Bard  will  do  himself  the  pleasure 
To  call  at  Park. 

Robert  Buens. 

MossGiEL,  30th  October,  1786. 


TO    THE     GUIDWIFE    OF    WAU- 
CHOPE    HOUSE 

(MRS.    SCOTT) 

Written  in  answer  to  a  rhyming^  epistle  from 
"  The  Guidwife  of  Wauchope-House  to  Robert 
Burns  the  Avrshire  Bard,  February,  1787." 
The  lady  was  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Scott  (bom  1729, 
daughter  of    David   Rutherford,   Edmbnrgh, 


TO   WM.   TYTLER,    ESQ.,    OF   WOODHOUSELEE 


135 


and  niece  to  Mrs.  Cockbum,  the  song-writer), 
■wife  of  Walter  Scott  of  Wauchope.  Burns's 
visit  to  her  on  10th  May  following-  is  thus  re- 
corded in  his  Journal  of  the  Border  tour: 
*'  Wauchope  —  Mr.  iScott  exactly  the  figTire 
and  face  commonly  given  to  Saneho  Panza  — 
very  shrewd  in  his  farming  matters,  and  not 
unfrequently  stumbles  on  what  may  be  called 
a  strong  thing  rather  than  a  good  thing.  Mrs. 
Scott  all  the  sense,  taste,  intrepidity  of  face, 
and  bold  critical  decision  which  usually  dis- 
tinguish female  authors."  She  died  19th  Feb- 
ruary, 1789.  After  her  death  a  selection  from 
her  verses  was  published  (1801),  under  the  title 
Alonzo  and  Cora,  in  which  Burns's  Epistle  was 
included. 


Gun)  Wife, 

I  mind  it  weel,  in  early  date, 

When  I  was  beardless,  young,  and  blate, 

An'  first  could  thresh  the  barn. 
Or  hand  a  yokiu  at  the  pleugh. 
An',  tho'  forfoughten  sair  eneugh. 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn; 
When  first  amang  the  yellow  corn 

A  man  I  reckon'd  was, 
An'  wi'  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass: 
Still  shearing,  and  clearing 

The  tither  stookfed  raw, 
Wi'  clavers  an'  havers 
Wearing  the  day  awa. 


E'en  then,  a  wish  (I  mind  its  pow'r), 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast. 
That  I  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake 
Some  usefu'  plan  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  burr-thistle  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turn'd  the  weeder-clips  aside, 
An'  spar'd  the  symbol  dear. 
No  nation,  no  station 

My  envy  e'er  could  raise; 
A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 
I  knew  nae  higher  praise. 


But  still  the  elements  o'  sang 

In  formless  jumble,  right  an'  wrang. 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain ; 
Till  on  that  hairst  I  said  before. 
My  partner  in  the  merry  core. 

She  rous'd  the  forming  strain. 


I  see  ber  yet,  the  sonsie  quean 

That  lighted  up  my  jingle, 
Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  een 
«.      That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle  ! 
I  fir^d,  inspired, 

At  ev'ry  kindling  keek, 
But,  bashing  and  dashing, 
I  feared  ay  to  speak. 

IV 

Hale  to  the  sex  !  (ilk  guid  chiel  says) : 
Wi'  merry  dance  on  winter  days, 

An'  we  to  share  in  common  ! 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  saul  o'  life,  the  heav'n  below 

Is  rapture-giving  Woman. 
Ye  siu'ly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name, 

Be  mindfu'  o'  your  mither: 
She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 
That  ye  're  connected  with  her  ! 
Ye  're  wae  men,  ye  're  nae  men 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears; 
To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye. 
Ilk  honest  birkie  swears. 


For  you,  no  bred  to  barn  and  byre, 
Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre, 

Thanks  to  you  for  j^our  line  ! 
The  marl'd  plaid  ye  kindly  spare, 
By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware; 

'T  wad  please  me  to  the  nine. 
I  'd  be  mair  vauntie  o'  my  hap, 

Douce  hingin  owre  my  curple, 
Than  onie  ermine  ever  lap. 
Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Farewell,  then  !  lang  hale,  then, 

An'  plenty  be  your  fa'  ! 
May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne'er  at  your  hallau  ca' ! 

R.  Burns. 

March,  1787. 


TO    WM.   TYTLER,  ESQ.,  OF 
WOODHOUSELEE 

WITH  AN  IMPRESSION  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S 
PORTRAIT 

Son  of  Alexander  Tytler,  an  Edinburgh  so- 
licitor, William  Tytler  was  born  12th  October, 
1711  ;  was  educated  at  the  High  School  and 
University  ;  was  admitted  Writer  to  the  Signet 


136 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


in  1744  ;  and  died  l:ith  September,  1792.  He 
bestowed  his  leisure  upon  historical  and  anti- 
quarian studies,  and  is  known  (to  those  who 
care  to  know )  as  author  of  an  Inquiry^  Histori- 
cal and  Critical,  into  the  Evidence  against  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  1739  (hence  the  terms  of  the 
poet's  address);  &  Poetical  Remains  of  James 
I.  of  Scotland,  1783  ;  a  Dissertation  on  Scottish 
Music,  1774  ;  and  certain  papers  in  the  Trans- 
actions of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries.  He  as- 
sisted Johnson  with  vol.  i.  of  the  Musical  Mu- 
seum, whereon  his  place  was  presently  taken  by 
Bums. 

The  Epistle  (as  awkward  a  piece  of  writing 
as  Burns  ever  did  in  English)  was  accompanied 
by  a  copy  of  the  Beugo  engraving.  A  few 
lines  of  prose  were  added  (those  in  brackets 
have  not  hitherto^been  printed):  "My  Muse 
jilted  me  here,  and  turned  a  corner  on  me,  and 
I  have  not  got  again  into  her  good  graces.  [I 
have  two  requests  to  make.  Burn  the  above 
verses  when  you  have  read  them,  as  any  little 
sense  that  is  in  them  is  rather  heretical,  and] 
do  me  the  justice  to  believe  me  sincere  in  my 
grateful  remembrance  of  the  many  civilities 
you  have  honoured  me  with  since  I  came  to 
Edinburgh,  and  in  assuring  you  that  I  have  the 
honour  to  be,  revered  sir,  your  obliged  and 
very  humble  servant,  Robert  Bukns. 

"  Lawn  Market,  Friday  noon." 

Scott  Douglas  surmises  that  the  expunged 
lines  contained  '"  some  ultra-Jacobite  sally  ;  " 
but  it  is  now  manifest  that  Tytler  would  not 
have  it  known  that  he  had  disregarded  Burns's 
request. 


Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 
Of  Stuart !  —  a  name  once  respected, 

A  name  which  to  love  was  once  mark  of  a 
true  heart, 
But  now  't  is  despis'd  and  neglected  ! 


Tho'  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in 
my  eye  — 
Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal  ! 
A  poor  friendless  wand'rer  may  well  claim 
a  sigh  — 
Still  more,  if  that  wand'rer  were  royal. 


My  Fathers  that  name  have  rever'd  on  a 
throne ; 
My  Fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it: 
>  That  is,  before  the  Centenary  Edition. 


Those  Fathers  would  spurn  their  degener- 
ate son, 
That  name,  should  he  scoffingly  slight  it. 

IV 

Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I  most 
heartily  join, 
The  Queen,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry; 
Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of 
mine: 
Their  title  's  avow'd  by  my  country. 


But  why  of  that  epocha  make  such  a  fuss 
That  gave  us  the  Hanover  stem  ? 

If  bringing  them  over  was  lucky  for  us, 
I  'm  sure  't  was  as  lucky  for  them. 

VI 

But  loyalty  —  truce  !  we  're  on  dangerous 
ground : 

Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 
The  doctrine,  to-day  that  is  loyalty  sound. 

To-morrow  may  bring  us  a  baiter  ! 

VII 

I  send  you  a  trifle,  a  head  of  a  Bard, 
A  trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care; 

But  accept  it,  good  Sir,  as  a  mark  of  regard. 
Sincere  as  a  saint's  dying  prayer. 


Now  Life's  chilly  evening   dim-shades  on 
your  eye, 
And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night; 
But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds 
the  sky. 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 


TO  MR.  RENTON  OF  LAMERTON 

Sent  to  Mr.  Eenton,  Mordington  House, 
Berwickshire,  probably  during  the  poet's  Bor- 
der tour  —  though  Eenton  is  not  mentioned  in 
his  Journal. 

YoTJR  billet,  Sir,  I  grant  receipt; 
Wi'  you  I  '11  canter  onie  gate, 
Tho'  't  were  a  trip  to  yon  blue  warl' 
Where  birkies  march  on  burning  marl: 
Then,  Sir,  God  willing,  I  '11  attend  ye. 
And  to  His  goodness  I  commend  ye. 

R.  Burns. 


TO    MISS    FERRIER 


137 


TO    MISS    ISABELLA   MACLEOD 

For  Isabella  Macleod,  see  ante,  p.  96,  Prefa- 
tory Note  to  On  Reading  in  a  Newspaper  the 
Death  of  John  M^Leod,  Esq. 

EDrNBtJHGH,  March  IG,  1787. 
I 

The  crimson  blossom  charms  the  bee, 
The  summer  sun  the  swallow: 

So  dear  this  tuneful  gift  to  me 
From  lovely  Isabella. 


Her  portrait  fair  upon  my  mind 
Revolving  time  shall  mellow, 

And  mem'ry's  latest  effort  find 
The  lovely  Isabella. 

Ill 

No  Bard  nor  lover's  rapture  this 
In  fancies  vain  and  shallow  ! 

She  is,  so  come  my  soul  to  bliss, 
The  lovely  Isabella ! 


TO    SYMON    GRAY 

Symon  Gray  lived  near  Duns,  and  while 
Burns  was  on  his  Border  toiir  sent  him  some 
verses  for  his  opinion. 


Symon  Gray,  you  're  dull  to-day  ! 

Dullness  with  redoubled  sway 

Has  seized  the  wits  of  Symon  Gray. 


Dear  Symon  Gray,  the  other  day 
When  you  sent  me  some  rhyme, 

I  could  not  then  just  ascertain 
Its  worth  for  want  of  time; 

III 

But  now  to-day,  good  Mr.  Gray, 
I  've  read  it  o'er  and  o'er: 

Tried  all  my  skill,  but  find  I  'm  still 
Just  where  I  was  before. 


We  auld  wives'  minions  gie  our  opinions. 
Solicited  or  no ; 


Then  of  its  fauts  my  honest  thoughts 
I  '11  give  —  and  here  they  go: 


Such  damn'd  bombflst  no  age  that  's  past 
Can  show,  nor  time  to  come; 

So,  Symon  dear,  your  song  I  '11  tear. 
And  with  it  wipe  my  bum. 


TO   MISS    FERRIER 

Jane  Ferrier,  eldest  daughter  of  James  Far- 
rier, Writer  to  the  Signet  —  who  resided  in 
George  Street,  Edinburgh  —  and  sister  to  Miss 
Ferrier  the  novelist.  She  was  born  in  1767  ; 
married  General  Samuel  Graham,  for  some 
time  deputy-governor  of  Stirling  Castle  ;  with 
Edward  Blore,  the  architect,  published  draw- 
ings of  the  carved  work  in  the  state-rooms 
of  that  fortress  under  the  title.  Lacunar  Streve- 
lincnse,  1817  ;  and  died  in  1846. 

I 

Nae  heathen  name  shall  I  prefix 

Frae  Pindus  or  Parnassus; 
Auld  Reekie  dings  them  a'  to  sticks 

For  rhyme-inspiring  lasses. 


Jove's  tunefu'  dochters  three  times  three 
Made  Homer  deep  their  debtor; 

But  gien  the  body  half  an  e'e, 
Nine  Ferriers  wad  done  better  ! 


Last  day  my  mind  was  in  a  bog; 

Down  George's  Street  I  stoited; 
A  creeping,  cauld,  prosaic  fog 

My  very  senses  doited; 


Do  what  I  dought  to  set  her  free, 
My  saul  lay  in  the  mire: 

Ye  turned  a  neuk,  I  saw  your  e'e. 
She  took  the  wing  like  fire  ! 


The  mournfu'  sang  I  here  enclose, 

In  gratitude  I  send  you. 
And  pray,  in  rhyme  as  weel  as  prose, 

A'  guid  things  may  attend  you  ! 


138 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


SYLVANDER   TO    CLARINDA 

Clarinda  was  Mrs.  Agues  Maelehose,  nee 
Craig,  daughter  of  Andrew  Craig,  surgeon, 
Glasgow.  !She  was  born  in  April,  1759  —  the 
same  year  as  her  poet ;  and  when  he  met  her 
in  Edinburgh  (Tth  December,  17ST)  she  had 
for  some  time  been  separated  from  her  hus- 
band. The  Bard,  who  was  (as  ever)  by  way 
of  being  a  buck,  accepted  an  invitation  to  take 
tea  with  her  on  the  9th  ;  but  an  accident  obli- 
ging him  to  keep  his  room,  he  wrote  to  express 
his  regret,  and  at  the  same  time  intimated  his 
resolve  to  cherish  her  "  friendship  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  religion."  Mrs.  Maelehose  re- 
sponding in  the  same  key,  the  ' '  f riend.ship  " 
proceeded  apace.  On  Christmas  Eve  she  sent 
him  certain  verses,  signed  '"  Clarinda,"  On 
Hums  saying  He  had  nothing  else  to  Do,  three 
of  V  hich  he  quoted  in  the  Glenriddell  Book  :  — 

"  When  first  you  saw  Clarinda's  charms, 
What  rapture  in  your  bosom  grew  ! 
Her  heart  was  shut  to  Love's  alarms. 
But  then  —  you  'd  nothing  else  to  do. 

"  Apollo  oft  had  lent  his  harp, 

But  now  't  was  strung  from  Cupid's  bow  ; 
You  sung  —  it  reached  Clarinda's  heart  — 
She  wish'd  you  'd  nothing  else  to  do. 

"  Fair  Venus  smil'd,  Minerva  frown'd, 
Cupid  observed,  the  arrow  flew  : 
Indifference  (ere  a  week  went  round) 
Show'd  you  had  nothing  else  to  do." 

Thus  challenged,  Sylvander  —  he  became  Syl- 
vander  there  and  then  —  replied  as  in  the  text ; 
and  the  romantic  terms  in  which  the  two  went 
on  to  conduct  their  correspondence  soon  served 
the  ardent  youth  as  a  pretext  for  the  expres- 
sion of  fiercer  sentiments  than  Clarinda's  "  prin- 
ciples of  reason  and  religion ' '  should  have 
allowed.  She  sent  her  Arcadian  poems,  which 
he  amended  for  Johnson's  Museum  ;  and  he  fell 
so  deeply  enamoured  that,  on  leaving  Edinburgh 
(24th  March)  he  must  write  thus  to  a  friend : 
"  During  these  last  eight  days  I  have  been  pos- 
itively crazy."  Clarinda  (like  Maman  Vau- 
quer)  avait  des  idfes  —  as  what  lady  in  the 
circumstances  would  not  ?  And  when  Clarinda 
learned,  in  August,  that  Bums  had  married 
Armour,  Clarinda  resented  her  Sylvander's  de- 
fection as  an  unpardonable  wrong.  They  were 
partly  reconciled  in  the  autumn  of  1791  ;  and 
ere  she  rejoined  her  husband  in  Jamaica,  they 
had  an  interview  on  6th  December,  which  the 
gallant  and  romantic  little  song,  O  May,  Thy 
Morn  was  ne'er  sae  Sweet,  is  held  to  commemo- 
rate. On  the  27th  he  sent  her  Ae  Fond  Kiss 
and  then  We  Sever,  with  the  finest  lines  he  ever 
wrote:  — 


"  Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted  — 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted  :  " 

Behold  the  Hour,  the  Boat  Arrive,  and  part  of 
Gloomy  December,  with  the  remark :  ''  The  re- 
mainder of  this  song  is  on  the  wheels  — Adieu  ! 
Adieu  !  "  Mrs.  Maelehose,  still  unreconciled  to 
her  husband,  returned  to  Scotland  in  Augu-st, 
1792.  Burns  and  she  corresponded  occasion- 
ally, but  never  met  again.  She  died  22d  Octo- 
ber, 1841. 


When  dear  Clarinda,  matchless  fair, 
First  struck  Sylvander's  raptur'd  view, 

He  gaz'd,  he  listened  to  despair  — 
Alas  !  't  was  all  he  dared  to  do. 


Love  from  Clarinda's  heavenly  eyes 
Transfixed  his  bosom  thro'  and  thro', 

But  still  in  Friendship's  guarded  guise  — 
For  more  the  demon  fear'd  to  do. 

Ill 

That  heart,  already  more  than  lost, 
The  imp  beleaguer'd  all  perdu; 

For  frowning  Honor  kept  his  post  — 
To  meet  that  frown  he  shrmik  to  do. 


His  pangs  the  Bard  refus'd  to  own, 
Tho'  half  he  wish'd  Clarinda  knew; 

But  Anguish  wrung  the  unweeting  groan  — 
Who    blames   what   frantic   Pain    must 
do? 


That  heart,  where  motley  follies  blend, 
Was  sternly  still  to  Honor  true: 

To  prove  Clarinda's  fondest  friend 
Was  what  a  lover,  sure,  might  do  ! 


The  Muse  his  ready  quill  employ'd; 

No  nearer  bliss  he  could  pursue ; 
That  bliss  Clarinda  cold  deny'd  — 

"  Send  word  by  Charles  how  you  do  !  " 


The  chill  behest  disarm'd  his  Muse, 
Till  Passion  all  impatient  grew: 

He  wrote,  and  hinted  for  excuse, 

"  'T  was  'cause  he  'd  nothing  else  to  do." 


TO   HUGH   PARKER 


VIII 


But  by  those  hopes  I  have  above  ! 

And  by  those  faults  I  dearly  rue  ! 
The  deed,  the  boldest  mark  of  love, 

For  thee  that  deed  I  dare  to  do  ! 


O,  could  the  Fates  but  name  the  price 
Would  bless  me  with  your  charms  and 
you, 

With  frantic  joy  I  'd  pay  it  thrice. 
If  human  art  or  power  could  do  ! 


Then  take,  Clarinda,  friendship's  hand 

(Friendship,  at  least,  I  may  avow), 
And  lay  no  more  your  chill  command  — 
I  '11  write,  whatever  I  've  to  do. 

Sylvander. 
Wednesday  night. 


TO    CLARINDA 


WITH   A    PAIR    OF   WINE-GLASSES 

The  glasses  were  sent  as  a  parting  gift  when 
Burns  left  Edinburgh,  24th  March,  1788. 


Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul 
And  Queen  of  Poetesses, 

Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon, 
This  humble  pair  of  glasses; 


And  fill  them  up  with  generous  juice. 

As  generous  as  your  mind; 
And  pledge  them  to  the  generous  toast: 

"  The  whole  of  human  kind  !  " 


"  To  those  who  love  us  !  "  second  fill; 
But  not  to  those  whom  loe  love. 
Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us  ! 
A  third:  —  "  To  thee  and  me,  love  !  " 


TO    HUGH    PARKER 

A  brother  of  Major  William  Parker  of  Kil- 
marnock, referred  to  in  the  song   Ye  Sons  of 


Old  Killie  (see  post,  p.  o06).  Writing  to  Robert 
Muir,  26th  August,  1787,  Burns  sends  compli- 
ments to  Messrs.  W.  and  H.  Parker,  and  hopes 
that  "  Hughoc  is  going  on  and  prospering  with 
God  and  Miss  M'Causlin."  Tiie  Epistle  was 
written  soon  after  his  arrival  in  Ellisland  on 
r2th  Juno,  1788,  whence,  on  writing  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop,  he  describes  himself  (14th  June)  as 
'■  a  solitar}'  inmate  of  an  old  smoky  spence  ;  far 
from  every  object  I  love,  or  by  whom  I  am 
beloved  ;  nor  any  acquaintance  older  than  yes- 
terday except  Jenny  Geddes,  the  old  mare  I 
ride  on." 

In  this  strange  land,  this  uncouth  clime, 
A  land  unknown  to  prose  or  rhyme; 
Where    words    ne'er    cros't    the     Muse's 

heckles. 
Nor  limpit  in  poetic  shackles: 
A  land  that  Prose  did  never  view  it, 
Except  when  drunk  lie  stacher't  thro'  it: 
Here,  ambush'd  by  the  chimla  cheek, 
Hid  in  an  atmosphere  of  reek, 
I  hear  a  wheel  thrum  i'  the  neuk, 
I  hear  it  —  for  in  vain  I  leuk : 
The  red  peat  gleams,  a  fiery  kernel 
Enhuskfed  by  a  fog  infernal. 
Here,  for  my  wonted  rhyming  raptures, 
I  sit  and  count  my  sins  by  chapters ; 
For  life  and  spunk  like  ither  Christians, 
I  'm  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence; 
Wi'  uae  converse  but  Gallowa'  bodies, 
Wi'  nae  kend  face  but  Jenny  Geddes. 
Jenny,  my  Pegasean  pride, 
Dowie  she  saunters  down  Nitbside, 
And  ay  a  westlin  leuk  she  throws, 
While  tears  hap  o'er  her  auld  brown  nose  ! 
Was  it  for  this  wi'  cannie  care 
Thou  bure  the  Bard  through  many  a  shire  ? 
At  howes  or  hillocks  never  stumbled. 
And  late  or  early  never  grumbled  ? 
O,  had  I  power  like  inclination, 
I  'd  heeze  thee  up  a  constellation  ! 
To  canter  with  the  Sagitarre, 
Or  loup  the  Ecliptic  like  a  bar. 
Or  turn  the  Pole  like  any  arrow; 
Or,  when  auld  Phoebus  bids  good-morrow, 
Down  tlie  Zodiac  urge  the  race, 
And  cast  dirt  on  his  godship's  face: 
For  I  could  lay  my  bread  and  kail 
He  'd  ne'er  cast  savit  upo'  thy  tail  !  .  .  . 
Wi'  a'  this  care  and  a'  this  grief, 
And  sma',  sma'  prospect  of  relief. 
And  nought  but  peat  reek  i'  my  head, 
How  can  I  write  what  ye  can  read  ?  — 
Tarbolton,  twenty-fourth  o'  June, 


140 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Ye  '11  find  me  in  a  better  tuue; 

But  till  we  meet  and  weet  our  whistle, 

Tak  this  excuse  for  nae  epistle. 

Robert  Burns. 


TO   ALEX.   CUNNINGHAM 

Ellislakd  in  Nithsdale, 
July  27th,  178S. 

Alexander  Cunningham,  when  Bums  met 
him  in  Edinburgh  in  the  winter  of  1786-7,  was 
practising  as  a  lawyer.  Probably  Burns  was 
introduced  to  him  at  the  Crochallan  Club  ;  and 
they  remained  on  th6  friendliest  terms  until 
the  poet's  death.  The  Anna  of  this  Epistle 
and  of  the  song  An7ia  (ante,  p.  95)  was  a  Miss 
Anne  Stewart,  who  (to  Cunningham's  lasting 
chagrin)  married  Mr.  Forest  Dewar,  surgeon 
and  town-councillor,  Edinburgh  (loth  January, 
1789).  Her  perfidy  suggested  She  's  Fair  and 
Fause  ;  and,  according  to  Bums  himself,  it  was 
Cunningham's  misfortune  to  which  he  essayed 
to  do  further  justice  in  Had  I  a  Cave.  Cun- 
ningham married  in  1792,  and  went  into  pai-t- 
nership  with  a  goldsmith.  He  died  January 
27,  1812.  In  accordance  with  an  announce- 
ment made  by  Burns  in  an  affecting  letter  a 
fortnight  before  his  death,  the  Poet's  post- 
humous child  was  named  Alexander  Cunning- 
ham Bums.  Holograph  letters  of  Cunningham 
—  with  copies  of  which  we  have  been  favoured 
by  his  descendants  —  show  that  he  it  was  who 
originated  both  the  subscription  on  behalf  of 
Mrs.  Bums  and  the  scheme  for  a  collected 
Edition ;  and  that  to  him  the  success  of  both 
enterprises  was  chiefly  due. 


My  godlike  friend  —  nay,  do  not  stare: 
You  think  the  praise  is  odd-like  ? 

But  "  God  is  Love,"  the  saints  declare: 
Then  surely  thou  art  god-like  ! 


And  is  thy  ardour  still  the  same, 
And  kindled  still  in  Anna  ? 

Others  may  boast  a  partial  flame, 
But  thou  art  a  volcano  ! 


Etch  Wedlock  asks  not  love  beyond 
Death's  tie-dissolving  portal; 

But  thou,  omnipotently  fond, 
May'st  promise  love  immortal ! 


Thy  wounds  such  healing  powers  defy, 
Such  symptoms  dire  attend  them, 

That  last  great  autihectic  try  — 
Marriage  perhaps  may  mend  them. 


Sweet  Anna  has  an  air  —  a  grace, 

Divine,  magnetic,  touching  ! 
She  takes,  she  charms  —  but  who  can  trace 

The  process  of  bewitching  ? 


TO    ROBERT    GRAHAM,  ESQ.,   OF 
FIN  TRY 

REQUESTING   A    FAVOUR 

This  was  doubtless  the  piece  referred  to  in  a 
note  to  Miss  Chalmers,  16th  September,  1788  : 
"  I  very  lately  —  to  wit,  since  harvest  began 
—  wrote  a  poem,  not  in  imitation,  but  in  the 
manner  of  Pope's  Moral  Epistles.  It  is  only  a 
short  essay,  just  to  try  the  strength  of  my 
Muse's  pinion  in  that  way.' '  For  an  account 
of  Graham  of  Fintry,  see  ante,  p.  85. 

When  Nature  her  great  master-piece  de- 

sign'd, 
And  fram'd  her  last,  best  work,  the  human 

mind. 
Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  wondrous  plan. 
She  form'd   of   various  stuff   the   various 

Man. 

The    useful    many   first,   she   calls    them 

forth  — 
Plain  plodding  Industry  and  sober  Worth: 
Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons   of 

earth. 
And  merchandise'  whole  genus  take  their 

birth; 
Each  prudent  cit  a  warm  existence  finds,     J 
And  all  mechanics'  many-apron'd  kinds.       ' 
Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet  — 
The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  net: 
The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires 
Makes  a  material    for  mere   knights   andj 

squires; 

The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to  flow; 
She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic  dough,| 
Then  marks  th'  unyielding  mass  with  grave 

designs  — 


TO    ROBERT   GRAHAM,    ESQ.,    OF   FINTRY 


141 


Law,  physic,  politics,  and  deep  divines; 
Last,  she  sublimes  th'  Aurora  of  the  poles, 
The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The    order'd    system    fair    before    her 

stood; 
Nature,  well   pleas'd,  pronounc'd    it  very 

good; 
Yet  ere  she  gave  creating  labour  o'er. 
Half-jest,   she   tried    one   curious    labour 

more. 
Some  spumy,  fiery,  ignis  fatuus  matter, 
Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might 

scatter; 
With  arch-alacrity  and  conscious  glee 
(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we: 
Her   Hogarth-art,   perhaps  she   meant  to 

show  it). 
She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it — a 

Poet: 
Creature,   tho'  oft   the  prey  of   care    and 

sorrow. 
When  blest  to-day,  unmindful  of  to-mor- 
row; 
A  being  form'd  t'  amuse  his  graver  friends; 
Admir'd  and  prais'd  —  and  there  the  wages 

ends ; 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  Fortune's  strife. 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live; 
Longing   to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each 

groan. 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

But  honest  Nature  is  not  quite  a  Turk: 
She  laugh'd  at  first,  then  felt  for  her  poor 

work. 
Viewing  the  propless  climber  of  mankind. 
She  cast  about  a  standard  tree  to  find; 
In  pity  for  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 
She  clasp'd  his  tendrils   round   the  truly 

great : 
A  title,  and  the  only  one  I  claim, 
To  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  bounteous 

Graham. 

Pity  the  hapless  Muses'  tuneful  train  ! 
Weak,   timid   landsmen    on   life's    stormy 

main, 
Their   hearts   no   selfish,   stern,  absorbent 

stufF, 
That  never  gives  —  tho'  humbly  takes  — 

enough: 
The  little  Fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon. 


Unlike  sage,  proverb'd  Wisdom's  haid- 
wrung  boon. 

The  world  were  blest  did  bliss  on  tliem  de- 
pend — 

Ah,  that  "  the  friendly  e'er  should  want  a 
friend  !  " 

Let  Prudence  number  o'er  each  sturdy 
son 

Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun. 

Who  feel  by  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule 

(Instinct 's  a  brute,  and  Sentiment  a  fool  !), 

Who  make  poor  "  will  do  "  wait  upon  "  I 
should  "  — 

We  own  they  're  prudent,  but  who  owns 
they  're  good  ? 

Ye  wise  ones,  hence  !  ye  hurt  the  social 
eye, 

God's  image  rudely  etch'd  on  base  alloy  ! 

But  come  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure 
know. 

Heaven's  attribute  distinguish'd  —  to  be- 
stow ! 

Whose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  all  human 
race: 

Come  thou  who  giv'st  with  all  a  courtier's 
grace  — 

Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my 
rhymes. 

Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times  ! 

Why  shrinks  my  soul,  half  blushing,  half 

afraid, 
Backward,  abash'd  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid  ? 
I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving  hand, 
I  tax  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command. 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful 

Nine 
(Heavens !  should  the  branded   character 

be  mine  !), 
Whose  verse  in  manhood's  pride  sublimely 

flows. 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 
Mark,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 
Soars   on    the   spurning   wing    of   injur'd 

merit  ! 
Seek  you  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find  ? 
Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind! 
So  to  Heaven's  gates  the  lark's  shrill  song 

ascends, 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  tlie  carol  ends. 
In  all  the  clam'rons  cry  of  starving  want, 
They    dun    Benevolence    with    shameless 

front; 
Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  lays  — 
They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days  ! 


142 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation 

stain, 
'M.y  liornj'  fist  assume  the  plough  again  ! 
The   pie-bald    jacket   let   me    patch   once 

more  ! 
On  eighteenpence  a  week  I  've  liv'd  before. 
Tho',  thanks  to  Heaven,  I  dare  even  that 

last  shift, 
I  trust,  meantime,  my  hoon  is  in  thy  gift: 
That,  plac'd  by  thee  upon  the   wish'd-for 

height. 
With  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight, 
My  Muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sub- 

limer  flight. 


IMPROMPTU    TO   CAPTAIN    RID- 
DELL 

ON    RETURNING   A   NEWSPAPER 

! 

Bums's  near  neighbour  at  Friars  Carse,  who  j 
showed  him  great  courtesy,  and  gave  him  a  j 
key  to  his  private  grounds  and  the  Hermitage 
on  Nithside  (see  ante,  pp.  80,  120).  Friars 
Carse  was  also  the  scene  of  the  drinking  bout 
celebrated  in  The  Whistle  (ante,  p.  99).  Burns 
wrote  his  song,  The  Day  Returns  {post,  p.  219)  i 
for  the  anniversary  (7th  November)  of  Captain  I 
Riddell's  marriage.  At  the  Riddells'  fireside 
he  "  enjoyed  more  pleasant  evenings  than  at  all 
the  houses  of  the  fashionable  people  put  to- 
gether ;  "  and  his  great  regard  was  in  no  wise 
lessened  by  the  quarrel  with  the  Captain's 
brother  and  sister-in-law  (see  post,  p.  178,  Pre-  , 
fatory  Note  to  Impromptu  on  Mrs.  EiddeWs 
Birthday),  by  which  the  hospitable  doors  of 
Glenridiell  —  a  centre  of  music  and  books,  of 
talk  and  fellowship  and  wine  —  were  closed  on 
him,  as  the  sequel  was  soon  to  show,  for  ever. 
On  Captain  Riddell's  death,  21st  April,  1794, 
he  hastened  to  dedicate  his  No  More,  Ye 
Warblers  of  the  Wood  (see  post,  p.  179)  to  his 
memory.  Riddell  was  an  accomplished  musi- 
cian, and  composed  several  of  the  airs  to  Burns's 
songs  in  Johnson's  Museum.  He  is  the  "  wor- 
thy Glenriddell  so  .skilled  in  old  coins  "  of  The 
Whistle.  A  fellow  of  the  London  Society  of 
Antiquaries,  he  contributed  some  important 
papers  to  Archceologia.  At  his  special  request. 
Bums  made  a  selection  from  his  unprinted 
poems,  which  he  presented,  with  a  preface 
breathing  warm  affection  for  himself  and  his 
"amiable  lady,"  and  concluding  thus:  "Let 
these  be  regarded  as  the  genuine  sentiments  of 
a  man  who  seldom  flattered  any,  and  never 
those  he  loved." 


Elliblakd,  Monday  Evening. 
I 

Your  News  and  Review,  Sir, 

I  've  read  through  and  through,  Sir, 

With  little  admiring  or  blaming: 
The  Papers  are  barren 
Of  home-news  or  foreign  — 

No  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 


Our  friends,  the  Reviewers, 

Those  chippers  and  hewers. 
Are  judges  of  mortar  and  stone,  Sir; 

But  of  meet  or  unmeet 

In  a  fabric  complete 
I  '11  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none.  Sir. 

Ill 

My  goose-quill  too  rude  is 

To  tell  all  your  goodness 
Bc'stow'd  on  your  servant,  the  Poet; 

Would  to  God  I  had  one 

Like  a  beam  of  the  sun, 
And  then  all  the  world.  Sir,  should  know  it! 


REPLY   TO    A    NOTE   FROM  CAP- 
TAIN   RIDDELL 

Ell  ISLAND. 
Dear  Sir,  at  onie  time  or  tide 
1  'd  rather  sit  wi'  you  than  ride, 

Tho'  't  were  wi'  royal  Geordie: 
And  trowth  !  your  kindness  soon  and  late 
Aft  gars  me  to  mysel  look  blate  — 
The  Lord  in  Heaven  reward  ye  ! 

R.  Burns 


TO  JAMES  TENNANT  OF  GLEN- 
CONNER 

Second  son  of  John  Tennant,  farmer,  of 
Glenconner,  in  the  parish  of  Ochiltree  —  ances- 
tor of  the  present  Sir  Charles  Tennant  of  The 
Glen  —  by  his  first  wife.  He  was  bom  1755^; 
kept  a  mill  at  Ochiltree  ;  and  died  April,  1835. 

AuLD  comrade  dear  and  brither  sinner, 
How  's  a'  the  folks  about  Glenconner  ? 
Mow  do  you  this  blae  eastlin  wind, 
That  's  like  to  blaw  a  body  blind  ? 
For  me,  my  faculties  are  frozen, 
^Nly  dearest  member  nearly  dozen'd. 


TO   JOHN   M'MURDO 


M3 


I  've  sent  you  here,  by  Johnie  Simson, 
Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on: 
Smith  wi'  his  sympathetic  feeling, 

f      An'  Reid  to  common  sense  appealing. 
Philosophers  have  fought  and  wrangled, 

!•      An'  meikle  Greek  an'  Latin  mangled, 
Till,  wi'  their  logic-jargon  tir'd 
And  in  the  depth  of  science  mir'd. 
To  common  sense  they  now  appeal  — 
What  wives  and  wabsters  see  and  feel  ! 
But,  hark  ye,  friend  !  I  charge  you  strictly, 
Peruse  them,  an'  return  them  quickly: 
For  now  I  'm  grown  sae  cursed  douse 
I  pray  and  ponder  butt  the  house ; 
My  shins  my  lane  I  there  sit  roastin, 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  an'  Boston; 
Till  by  an'  by,  if  I  baud  on, 
I  '11  grunt  a  redl  gospel  groan. 
Already  I  begin  to  try  it. 
To  cast  my  een  up  like  a  pyet. 
When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o'er, 
Flutt'ring  an'  gasping  in  her  gore: 
Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright, 
A  burning  an'  a  shining  light. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace  an'  wale  of  honest  men: 
When  bending  down  wi'  auld  grey  hairs, 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares. 
May  He  who  made  him  still  support  him, 
An'  views  beyond  the  grave  comfdrt  him  ! 
His  worthy  fam'ly  far  and  near, 
God  bless  them  a'  wi'  grace  and  gear  ! 

My  auld  schoolfellow,  preacher  Willie, 
The  manly  tar,  my  Mason-billie, 
And  Auchenbay,  I  wish  him  joy; 
If  he  's  a  parent,  lass  or  boy. 
May  he  be  dad  and  Meg  the  mither 
Just  five-and-forty  years  thegither  ! 
And  no  forgetting  wabster  Charlie, 
I  'm  tauld  he  offers  very  fairly. 
An',  Lord,  remember  singing  Sannock 
Wi'  hale  breeks,  saxpence,  an'  a  bannock  ! 
And  next,  my  auld  acquaintance,  Nancy, 
Since  she  is  fitted  to  her  fancy. 
An'  her  kind  stars  hae  airted  till  her 
A  guid  chiel  wi'  a  pickle  siller  ! 
My  kindest,  best  respects,  I  sen'  it, 
To  cousin  Kate,  an'  sister  Janet: 
Tell  them,  frae  me,  wi'  chiels  be  cautious. 
For  faith  !   they  '11  aiblins  fin'  them  fash- 
ions; 
To  grant  a  heart  is  fairly  civil. 
But  to  grant  a  maidenhead  's  the  devil ! 


An'  lastly,  Jamie,  for  yoursel. 

May  guardian  angels  tak  a  spell. 

An'  steer  you  seven  miles  south  o'  Hell ! 

But  first,  before  you  see  Heaven's  glory, 

May  ye  get  monie  a  merry  story, 

Monie  a  laugh  and  monie  a  drink. 

And  ay  eneugh  o'  needfu'  clink  ! 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  an'  joy  be  wi'  you  ! 
For  my  sake,  this  I  beg  it  o'  you: 
Assist  poor  Simson  a'  ye  can ; 
Ye  '11  fin'  him  just  an  honest  man. 
Sae  I  conclude,  and  quat  my  chanter, 
Yours,  saint  or  sinner, 

Rab  the  Ranter. 


TO  JOHN   M'MURDO 

WITH  SOME  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  POEMS 

Son  of  Robert  M'Murdo  of  Drumlanrig'. 
He  became  chamberlain  to  the  Duke  of 
Queensberry,  and  resided  at  Drumlanrig'.  He 
is,  perhaps,  the  "  Factor  John  "  of  The  Kirk's 
Alarm  (see  ante,  p.  113).  Bums  was  latterly 
on  terms  of  peculiar  intimacy  with  him  and 
his  family,  especially  after  1793,  when 
M'Murdo  kept  house  near  Dumfries.  He 
died  at  Bath,  4th  December,  1803.  M'Murdo 
and  Colonel  de  Peyster  of  the  Dumfries  Volun- 
teers were  brothers-in-law,  their  wives  being 
daughters  of  Provost  Blair,  Dumfries.  The 
canvassing  of  M'Murdo  and  his  "lovely 
spouse "  in  the  Dumfries  election  of  1790  is 
thus  described  in  the  Election  Ballad  to  Gra- 
ham of  Fintry  (post,  p.  163) : 

"  She  won  each  gaping  burgess'  heart, 
While  he,  sub  rosa,  played  his  part 
Among  their  wives  and  lasses." 

But  Bums's  esteem  for  both  is  sufficiently 
shown  in  the  present  note  and  in  the  lines 
On  John  WMurdo  (post.  p.  178).  Two  of 
their  daughters  are  the  respective  themes  of 
Bonie  Jean  and  Phyllis  the  /  air. 


O,  COULD  I  give  tbee  India's  wealth, 

As  I  this  trifle  send  ! 
Because  thy  Joy  in  both  would  be 

To  share  them  with  a  friend  ! 


But  golden  sands  did  never  g^raod 
The  Heliconian  stream: 


144 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Then  take  what  gold  could  never  buy  — 
An  honest  Bard's  esteem. 


SONNET   TO    ROBERT    GRAHAM, 
ESQ.,  OF    FINTRY 

ON   RECEIVING  A  FAVOUR,   I9TH    AUGUST, 
1789 

The  favour  was  the  appointment  to  an  ex- 
cise district  on  which  the  writer's  farm  was 
situate.  For  Graham,  see  ante^  p.  85.  For 
the  stave,  it  is  fair  to  note  that,  judging  hy 
this  and  the  other  two  or  three  essays  in  the 
form  which  Burns  has  left,  he  knew  nothing' 
about  the  sonnet  except  that  it  must  consist  of 
fourteen  lines,  and  that  (as  his  variations  in 
the  present  case  appear  to  show)  he  was  not 
always  sure  of  that.  The  reason  is  not,  of 
course,  that  the  sonnet  (which  is  described  in 
the  Schorte  Treatise  [1.585],  and  of  which  Mont- 
gomerie  left  some  seventy  finished  and  spirit- 
ed examples)  had  no  past  in  the  vernacular, 
hut  that  very  few  sonnets  were  made  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  none  of  these  few  was 
the  work  of  either  Ramsay  or  Fergusson. 

I  CALL  no  Goddess  to  inspire  my  strains: 
A  fabled  Muse  may  suit  a  Bard  that  feigns. 
Friend  of  my  life  !  my  ardent  spirit  burns, 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns, 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new, 
The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day  !  thou  other  paler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night  ! 
If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface, 
If  I  that  giver's  boimty  e'er  disgrace, 
Then   roll   to   me   along    your   wand'ring 

spheres 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years  ! 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  my  swelling  breast. 
And  grateful  would,  but  cannot,  speak  the 
rest. 


EPISTLE    TO    DR.    BLACKLOCK 

Thomas  Blacklock  was  born  at  Annan,  of 
English  (Cumberland)  parents  in  1721.  At  six 
months  smallpox  made  him  blind.  He  pub- 
lished Poems  (poor  stuff)  in  1746 ;  made  the 
acquaintance  of  David  Hume,  who  (with  other 


friends)  partly  supported  him  at  the  University 
of  Edinburgh  ;  by  Hume's  advice  completed  a 
theological  course  ;  in  1762  was  presented  to 
the  living  of  Kirkcudbright ;  but,  the  parish- 
ioners objecting  to  his  blindness,  retired  in 
1764  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  lived  by  taking 
pupils.  He  died  7th  Jidy,  1791.  An  edition 
of  his  verses  appeared  in  1793,  with  a  life  by 
Henry  Mackenzie.  It  was  owing  to  Blacklock 
that  Bums  resolved  upon  an  Edinburgh  Edi- 
tion. 

Ellisland,  21st  October,  1789. 

I 

Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie  ! 
And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie  ? 
I  kend  it  still,  your  wee  bit  jauntie 

Wad  bring  ye  to  : 
Lord  send  you  ay  as  weel 's  I  want  ye, 

And  then  ye  '11  do  ! 


The  Ill-Thief  blaw  the  Heron  south, 
And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth  ! 
He  tauld  mysel  by  word  o'  mouth, 

He  'd  tak  my  letter: 
I  lippen'd  to  the  chiel  in  trowth, 

And  bade  nae  better. 


But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one 
To  ware  his  theologic  care  on 

And  holy  study, 
And,  tired  o'  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on, 

E'en  tried  the  body. 

IV 

But  what  d'  ye  think,  my  trusty  fier  ? 
I  'm  turned  a  gauger  —  Peace  be  here  ! 
Parnassian  queires,  I  fear,  I  fear, 

Ye  '11  now  disdain  me, 
And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a  year 

Will  little  gain  me  ! 


Ye  glaikit,  gleesome,  dainty  daraies, 
Wba  by  Castalia's  wimplin  streamies 
Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbies. 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 
That  Strang  necessity  supreme  is 

'Mang  sons  o'  men. 

VI 

I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies; 

They  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o'  duddies: 


TO    A   GENTLEMAN 


145 


Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is  — 
I  need  na  vaunt  — 

But  1  '11  sned  besoms,  thraw  saugh  woodies, 
Before  they  want. 

VII 

Lord  help  me  thro'  this  warld  o'  care  ! 
1  'm  weary  —  sick  o't  late  and  air  ! 
Not  but  I  hae  a  richer  share 

Than  monie  ithers; 
But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare, 

And  a'  men  brithers  ? 


Come,  firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van. 
Thou  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  man  ! 
And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne'er  wan 

A  lady  fair: 
Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can 

Will  whyles  do  mair. 


But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme 

(I  'm  scant  o'  verse  and  scant  o'  time) : 

To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 

To  weans  and  wife, 
That 's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life. 


My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie, 
And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky: 
I  wat  she  is  a  daintie  chuckle 

As  e'er  tread  clay: 
And  gratefully,  my  guid  auld  eockie, 

I  'm  yours  for  ay. 

Robert  Burns. 


TO   A   GENTLEMAN 

WHO  HAD  SENT  A  NEWSPAPER,  AND 
OFFERED  TO  CONTINUE  IT  FREE  OF 
EXPENSE 

Probably  Peter  Stuart  of  TTie  London  Star. 
He  left  The  Morning  Post  to  join  with  certain 
others,  including'  John  Mayne,  author  of  T/ie 
Siller  Gun,  in  founding  The  Star  and  Evening 
Advertiser  in  the  beginning  of  1788 ;  but  in  the 
February  of  1789  he  quarrelled,  not.  as  has 
been  vaguely  supposed,  with  the  proprietors  of 
some  other  paper,  but  with  the  proprietors  of 
The  Star  aforesaid,  and  on  the  loth  he  brought 


out  a  Star  of  his  own.  The  main  ground  of 
the  quarrel  was  his  support  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  and  he  defended  his  secession  in  a 
lengthy  address  to  the  public.  Thus  for  some 
six  months  two  several  Utars  appeared  in  Lon- 
don :  the  old  one  —  the  Dog  Star,  Stuart  called 
it — "published  by  John  Mayne;"  and  the 
new  one,  "  published  by  Peter  Stuart,"  ex-pub- 
lisher of  the  old.  At  first  Stuart  retained  the 
old  title,  with  the  addition  below,  Printed  by 
P.  Stuart ;  but  on  February  24th  he  changed  it 
to  Stuarfs  Star  arid  Evening  Advertiser,  and 
on  April  27th  to  The  Morning  Star.  Some  two 
months  after  the  journal  died. 

Kind  Sir,  I  've  read  your  paper  through, 

And  faith,  to  me  't  was  really  new  ! 

How  guessed  ye,  Sir,  what  maist  I  wanted  ? 

This  raonie  a  day  I  've  grain'd  and  gaunted. 

To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin; 

Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutch  were  doin; 

That  vile  doup-skelper,  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off; 

Or  how  the  collieshangie  works 

At  ween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt. 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt; 

If  Denmark,  any  body  spak  o't; 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o't; 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were  hingin; 

How  libbet  Italy  was  singing; 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss 

Were  sayin  or  takin  aught  amiss ; 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame 

In  Britain's  court  kept  up  the  game: 

How  royal   George  —  the  Lord   leuk  o'er 

him  !  — 
Was  managing  St.  Stephen's  quorum; 
If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livin. 
Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in ; 
How  Daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin; 
If  Warren  Hastings'  neck  was  yeukiu ; 
How  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  rax'd, 
Or  if  bare  arses  yet  were  tax'd; 
The  news  o'  princes,  dukes,  and  earls. 
Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera-girls; 
If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  Wales, 
Was  threshin  still  at  hizzies'  tails; 
Or  if  he  was  grown  oughtlins  douser, 
And  no  a  perfect  kintra  cooser: 
A'  this  and  mair  I  never  heard  of, 
And,  but  for  you,  I  might  despair'd  of. 
So,  gratefu',  back  your  news  I  send  you. 
And  pray  a'  giiid  things  may  attend  you  I 
Ellislakd,  Monday  Morning. 


146 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


TO  PETER  STUART 

Dear  Peter,  dear  Peter, 

We  poor  sons  of  metre 
Are  often  uegleckit,  ye  ken: 

For  instance  your  sheet,  man 

(Tho'  glad  I  'm  to  see  't,  man), 
I  get  it  no  ae  day  in  ten. 


TO   JOHN    MAXWELL,  ESQ.,  OF 
TERRAUGHTIE 

ox    HIS    BIRTH-DAY 

John  Maxrwell,  though  descended  from  a 
branch  of  the  Maxwells,  was  born  of  humble 
parents  at  Buittle,  7th  February,  1720,  and 
apprenticed  to  a  joiner  in  Dumfries.  His  in- 
dustry and  ability  enabled  him  to  repurchase 
the  family  estate  of  Terraughtie.  Burns's  pre- 
diction as  to  his  length  of  days  was  so  far  veri- 
fied, one  learns,  that  he  died  (2.5th  January, 
]S14)  in  his  ninety-fourth  year.  In  the  Second 
Heron  Election  Ballad  (p.  166)  he  is  designated 
'"Teuch  Johnie." 


Health  to  the  Maxwells'  vet'ran  Chief  ! 
Health  ay  unsour'd  by  care  or  grief  ! 
Inspir'd,  I  turn'd  Fate's  sibyl  leaf 

This  natal  morn: 
I  see  thy  life  is  stuff  o'  prief. 

Scarce  quite  half-worn. 


This  day  thou  metes  threescore  eleven, 
And  I  can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven 
(The  second-sight,  ye  ken,  is  given 

To  ilka  Poet) 
On  thee  a  tack  o'  seven  times  seven, 

Will  yet  bestow  it. 


If  envious  buckies  view  wi'  sorrow 

Thy  lengtlien'd  days  on  thy  blest  morrow, 

May  Desolation's  laug-teeth'd  harrow, 

Nine  miles  an'  hour, 
Rake  them,  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 

In  brunstane  stoure  ! 

IV 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  monie, 
Baith  honest  men  and  lasses  bonie, 


May  couthie  Fortune,  kind  and  cannie 

In  social  glee, 
Wi'  mornings  blythe  and  e'enings  funny 

Bless  them  and  thee  ! 


Fareweel,  auld  birkie  !     Lord  be  near  ye, 
And  then  the  Deil,  he  daurna  steer  ye  ! 
Your  friends  ay  love,  your  foes  ay  fear  ye  ! 

For  me,  shame  fa'  me, 
If  neist  my  heart  I  diiina  wear  ye, 

While  Burns  they  ca'  me  ! 


TO   WILLIAM    STEWART 

In  honest  Bacon's  ingle-neuk 

Here  maun  I  sit  and  think, 
Sick  o'  the  warld  and  warld's  folk, 

An'  sick,  damn'd  sick,  o'  drink  ! 
I  see,  I  see  there  is  nae  help, 

But  still  doun  I  maun  sink. 
Till  some  day  laigh  enough  I  yelp:  — 

"  Wae  worth  that  cursed  drink  !  " 
Yestreen,  alas  !  I  was  sae  fu' 

I  could  but  yisk  and  wink; 
And  now,  this  day,  sair,  sair  I  rue 

The  weary,  weary  drink. 
Satan,  I  fear  thy  sooty  claws, 

I  hate  thy  brunstane  stink, 
And  ay  I  curse  the  luckless  cause  — 

The  wicked  soup  o'  drink. 
In  vain  I  would  forget  my  woes 

In  idle  rhyming  clink, 
For,  past  redemption  damn'd  in  prose, 

I  can  do  nought  but  drink. 
To  you  my  trusty,  well-tried  friend. 

May  heaven  still  on  you  blink  ! 
And  may  your  life  flow  to  the  end, 

Sweet  as  a  dry  man's  drink  ! 


INSCRIPTION  TO  MISS  GRAHAM 
OF  FINTRY 


Here,  where  the  Scottish  Muse  immortal 
lives 
In  sacred  strains   and  tuneful  numbers 
join'd, 

Accept  the  gift !     Though  humble  he  wl 

gives, 

Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind 


TO   COLONEL  DE   PEYSTER 


'47 


So  may  no  ruffian  feeling  in  thy  breast, 
Discordant,  jar  tliy  bosom-chords  among  ! 

But  Peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest. 
Or  Love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song  ! 


Or  Pity's  notes  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  Want  the  tale  of  woe  reveals; 
While  conscious  Virtue  all  the  strain  en- 
dears. 
And    heaven-born    Piety    her    sanction 
seals  ! 

Robert  Burns. 

DnuTBiES,  31st  January,  1794. 


REMORSEFUL  APOLOGY 
Probably  sent  to  Mrs.  Walter  Riddell. 


The   friend  whom,    wild   from   Wisdom's 
way, 

The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send 
(Not  moony  madness  more  astray). 

Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend  ? 


Mine  was  th'  insensate,  frenzied  part  — 
Ah  !  why  should  I  such  scenes  outlive  ? 

Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart ! 
'T  is  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


TO  COLLECTOR  MITCHELL 

Written  towards  the  close  of  '95.  Burns  was 
on  very  friendly  terms  with  Mitchell,  and  often 
sent  him  first  drafts  for  criticism. 


Friend  of  the  Poet  tried  and  leal, 
Wha  wanting  thee  might  beg  or  steal; 
Alake,  alake,  the  meikle  Deil 

Wi'  a'  his  witches 
Are  at  it,  skelpin  jig  an'  reel 

In  my  poor  pouches  ! 


1  modestly  fu'  fain  wad  hint  it, 

That  One-pound-one,  I  sairly  want  it; 


If  wi'  the  hizzie  down  ye  sent  it, 
It  would  be  kind; 

And  while  my  heart  wi'  life-blood  dunted, 
I  'd  bear  't  in  mind  ! 


So  may  the  Auld  Year  gang  out  moanin 
To  see  the  New  come  laden,  groanin 
Wi'  double  plenty  o'er  the  loanin 

To  thee  and  thine: 
Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crownin 

The  hale  design ! 


POSTSCRIPT 


this 


IV 
while 


how   I  've   been 


Ye  've   heard 
licket. 
And  by  fell  Death  was  nearly  nicket: 
Grim  loon  !     He  got  me  by  the  fecket, 

And  sair  me  sheuk; 
But  by  guid  luck  I  lap  a  wicket. 

And  turn'd  a  ueuk. 


But  by  that  health,  I  've  got  a  share  o't, 
And  by  that  life,  I  'm  promis'd  raair  o't, 
My  hale  and  weel,  I  '11  tak  a  care  o't, 

A  tentier  way; 
Then  farewell  Folly,  hide  and  hair  o't, 

For  ance  and  ay  ! 


TO  COLONEL  DE  PEYSTER 

Colonel  Arent  Sclmyler  de  Peyster  was  de- 
scended from  a  HusTnenot  family  settled  in 
America,  and  served  with  distinction  in  the 
American  War.  He  took  up  house  at  JLavis 
Grove,  near  Dumfries  ;  and  on  24th  May,  119^. 
was  appointed  colonel  of  the  Dumfries  Volun- 
teers, in  which  Biu-ns  was  a  private.  He  was 
a  brother-in-law  of  John  M'Murdo  (see  ante. 
p.  143).  He  died  2Cth  November,  1S22,  in  his 
l)6th  year. 


]\Iy  honor'd  Colonel,  deep  I  feel 
Your  interest  in  the  Poet's  weal: 
Ah  !  now  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  speel 

The  steep  Parnassus, 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  pill 

And  potion  glasses. 


148 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


O,  what  a  canty  warld  were  it, 

Would  pain  and  care  and  sickness  spare  it, 

And  Fortune  favor  worth  and  merit 

As  they  deserve, 
And  ay  a  rowth  —  roast-beef  and  claret !  — 

Syne,  wha  wad  starve  ? 


Dame  Life,  tho'  fiction  out  may  trick  her. 
And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck  her. 
Oh  !  flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker 

I  've  found  her  still: 
Ay  wavering,  like  the  willow-wicker, 

'Tween  good  and  ill  ! 


Then  that  curst  carmagnole,  Auld  Satan, 
Watches,  like  baudrons  by  a  ratton. 
Our  sinfu'  saul  to  get  a  claut  on 

Wi'  felon  ire; 
Syne,  whip  !  his  tail  ye  ne'er  cast  saut  on  - 

He  's  afP  like  fire. 


Ah  Nick  J  Ah  Nick  !  it  is  na  fair, 
First  showing  us  the  tempting  ware. 
Bright  wines  and  bonie  lasses  rare, 

To  put  us  daft; 
Syne  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare 

O'  Hell's  damned  waft ! 


Poor  Man,  the  flie,  aft  bizzes  by, 

And  aft,  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh, 

Thy  damn'd  auld  elbow  yeuks  wi'  joy 

And  hellish  pleasure. 
Already  in  thy  fancy's  eye 

Thy  sicker  treasure  ! 

VII 

Soon,  heels  o'er  gowdie,  in  he  gangs. 
And,  like  a  sheep-head  on  a  tangs, 
Thy  girnin  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 

And  murdering  wrestle. 
As,  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs 

A  gibbet's  tassle. 


But  lest  you  think  I  am  uncivil 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drivel, 

Abjuring  a'  intentions  evil, 

I  qviat  my  pen: 
The  Lord  preserve  us  frae  the  Devil ! 

Amen !  Amen  ! 


TO   MISS   JESSIE    LEWARS 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessie  fair, 
And  with  them  take  the  Poet's  prayer; 
That  Fate  may  in  her  fairest  page. 
With  ev'ry  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss  enrol  thy  name; 
With  native  worth,  and  spotless  fame. 
And  wakeful  caution,  still  aware 
Of  ill  —  but  chief  Man's  felon  snare  ! 
All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find. 
And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind  — 
These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward  ! 
So  prays  thy  faithful  friend,  the  Bard. 
Robert  Burns. 

June  26,  1796. 


INSCRIPTION 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A 
COPY  OF  THE  LAST 'EDITION  OF  MY 
POEMS,  PRESENTED  TO  THE  LADY 
WHOM,  IN  SO  MANY  FICTITIOUS  REVER- 
IES OF  PASSION,  BUT  WITH  THE  MOST 
ARDENT  SENTIMENTS  OF  REAL  FRIEND- 
SHIP, I  HAVE  SO  OFTEN  SUNG  UNDER 
THE  NAME  OF  CHLORIS 

For  Chloris,  see  Prefatory  Note  to  Lassie 
wV  the  Lint-white  Locks,  post,  p.  289.  The  copy 
sent  to  George  Thoiuson,  now  at  Brechin  Cas- 
tle, corresponds  with  the  text.  An  early  draft 
is  in  the  Clarke-Adam  Collection. 

The  stanza  is  that  of  much  English  eigh- 
teenth century  verse  :  among  the  rest,  of  Gold- 
smith's Edwin  and  Angelina. 


'Tis  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young,  fair 
Friend, 

Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse; 
Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 

The  moralising  Muse. 

II 

Since  thou  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu 
(A  world  'gainst  peace  in  constant  arms). 

To  join  the  friendly  few; 


Since,  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o'ercast, 
Chill  came  the  tempest's  lour 


PROLOGUE 


149 


(And  ne'er  Misfortune's  eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a  fairer  flower) ; 

IV 

Since   life's   gay   scenes   must    charm    no 
more: 

Still  much  is  left  behind, 
Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store  — 

The  comforts  of  the  mind  ! 


Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow 

Of  conscious  honor's  part; 
And  (dearest  gift  of  Heaven  below) 

Thine  Friendship's  truest  heart; 

VI 

The  joys  refin'd  of  sense  and  taste, 

With  every  Muse  to  rove: 
And  doubly  were  tlie  Poet  blest, 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 

Une  Bagatelle  de  VAmitie. 

COILA. 


THEATRICAL  PIECES 
PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN   BY   MR.  WOODS   ON  HIS    BENEFIT 
NIGHT,  MONDAY,    i6tH    APRIL,  1 787 

William  Woods,  born  1751,  was  originally  a 
printer,  but  joined  (c.  1768)  a  strolling'  com- 
pany at  [Southampton.  After  appearing  in 
London,  he  removed,  about  1771,  to  Edinburgh, 
where  he  played  leading  parts  in  tragedy 
and  sentimental  comedy.  He  died  14th  De- 
cember, 1802,  and  was  buried  in  the  Old  Cal- 
ton  Cemetery.  He  was  author  of  two  plavs  : 
The  Volunteers  (1778)  and  The  Twins  (1780)  ; 
the  last  one  published  in  '83.  Burns's  interest 
in  Woods  was  probably  quickened  by  the  play- 
er's friendship  with  Fergnsson,  who,  in  his  Last 
Will,  bequeaths  him  his  Shakespeare  :  — 

"  To  Woods,  whose  penius  can  provoke 
My  passions  to  the  bowl  or  sook  ; 
For  love  to  thee  and  to  the  Nine, 
Be  my  immortal  Sliakespeare  thine." 

The  piece,  like  the  others  in  this  category,  is 
on  the  traditional  lines  originally  laid  down  by 
Dryden. 

When  by  a  generous  Public's  kind  acclaim 
That    dearest    need   is    granted  —  honest 
fame; 


When  here  your  favour  is  the  actor's  lot, 
Nor  even  the  man  in  private  life  forgot; 
What  breast  so  dead  to  heavenly  Virtue's 

glow 
But  heaves  impassion'd  with  the  grateful 

throe  ? 

Poor   is   the    task   to   please    a   barb'rous 

throng: 
It  needs  no  Siddons'  powers  in  Southern's 

song. 
But  here  an  ancient  nation,  fam'd  afar 
For  genius,  learning  high,  as  great  in  war. 
Hail,  Caledonia,  name  for  ever  dear  ! 
Before    whose    sous   I  'm   honor "d   to   ap- 
pear ! 
Where  every  science,  every  noble  art, 
That  can  inform  the   mind  or   mend   the 

heart. 
Is   known    (as   gratefxd   nations   oft   have 

found), 
Far  as  the  rude  barbarian  marks  the  bound  ! 
Philosophy,  no  idle  pedant  dream. 
Here  holds   her  search   by  heaven-taught 

Reason's  beam; 
Here  History  paints  with  elegance  and  force 
The  tide  of  Empire's  fluctiiating  course; 
Here  Douglas  forms  wild  Shakespeare  into 

plan. 
And  Harley  rouses  all  the  God  in  man. 
When  well-form'd  taste  and  sparkling  wit 

unite 
AVith  manly  lore,  or  female  beauty  bright 
(Beauty,    where    faultless    symmetry   and 

grace 
Can  only  charm  us  in  the  second  place), 
Witness  my  heart,  how  oft  with  panting  fear. 
As  on  this  night,  I  've   met   these  judges 

here  ! 
But  still   the   hope  Experience   taught  to 

live: 
Equal  to  judge,  you  're  candid  to  forgive. 
No  hundred-headed  Riot  here  we  meet. 
With  Decency  and  Law  beneath  his  feet; 
Nor   Insolence    assumes    fair    Freedom's 

name: 
Like  Caledonians  you  applaud  or  blame  ! 

O  Thou,  dread  Power,  Whose  empire- 
giving  hand 

Has  oft  been  stretch'd  to  shield  the  honor' d 
land  ! 

Strong  may  she  glow  with  all  her  ancient 
fire; 

May  every  son  be  worthy  of  his  sire; 


15° 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Firm  may  she  rise,  with  generous  disdain 
At  Tyranny's,  or  direr  Pleasure's  chain; 
Still  self-dependent  in  her  native  shore, 
Bold  may  she  brave  grim  Danger's  loudest 

roar, 
Till  Fate  the  curtain  drop  on  worlds  to  be 

no  more  ! 


PROLOGUE     SPOKEN     AT     THE 
THEATRE   OF    DUMFRIES 

ON   NEW  year's  day  EVENING,  1 790 

Of  Sutherland  Bums  wrote  (9th  February, 
1790)  to  William  Nicol :  "  A  worthier  or 
cleverer  fellow  I  have  rarely  met  with."  To 
his  brother  Gilbert,  11th  January,  1790,  he 
described  him  as  "a  man  of  apparent  worth," 
adding  that  he  spouted  the  prolog'ue  ' '  to  his 
avidience  with  applause."  "  I  shall  not  be  in 
the  least  mortified,"  wrote  Burns,  "  though 
they  are  never  heard  of,  but  if  they  can  be  of 
any  service  to  Mr.  Sutherland  and  his  friends, 
I  shall  kiss  my  hands  to  my  Lady  Muse,  and 
own  myself  much  her  debtor." 

No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great 

city 
That  queens  it  o'er  our  taste  —  the  more  's 

the  pity  ! 
Tho',   by    the   bye,   abroad   why   will  you 

roam  ? 
Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at 

home. 
But  not  for  panegyric  I  appear: 
I  come  to  wish  you  all  a  good  New  Year  ! 
Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  before 

Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story. 
The  sage,  grave  Ancient  cough'd,  and  bade 

me  say: 
•'  You  're   one   year   older   this   important 

day." 
If  wiser  too  —  he  hinted  some  suggestion. 
But  't  would  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask  the 

question ; 
And  with  a  would-be-roguish  leer  and  wink 
He  bade  me  on  you  press  this  one  word  — 

Think  ! 

Ye   sprightly   youths,    quite    flush    with 
hope  and  spirit, 
Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of 
merit, 


To  you  the  dotard  has  a  deal  to  say,  ! 

In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way  !        1 

He  bids  you  mind,  amid  your  thoughtless 
rattle, 

That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle;      i 

That,  tho'  some  by  the   skirt  may  try  to     I 
snatch  him,  j 

Yet  by  the   forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch     j 
him ;  ' 

That,  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbear- 
ing, 

You  may  do  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  tho'  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful     a 
fair,  ' 

Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven's  peculiar  care  ! 

To  you  old  Bald-Pate  smoothes  his  wrinkled 
brow, 

And  humbly  begs  you  '11  mind  the  impor- 
tant —  Now  ! 

To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your 
leave. 

And  offers  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 

For  our  sincere,  tho'  haply  weak  endeav- 
ours, 

With  grateful  pride  we  own  your  many 
favours ; 

And  howsoe'er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal 

^*' 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel  it. 


SCOTS  PROLOGUE  FOR  MRS. 
SUTHERLAND 

ON    HER    BENEFIT-NIGHT   AT    THE    THEA- 
TRE, DUMFRIES,  MARCH  3,  I  790 

What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o' 

Lon'on, 
How  this  new  play  an'   that   new  song  is 

comin  ? 
Why  is  outlandish  stuff  sae  meikle  courted  ? 
Does  Nonsense  mend  like  brandy  —  when 

imported  ? 
Is  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for  fame, 
Will  bauldly  try  to  gie  us  plays  at  hame  ? 
For  Comedy  abroad  he  need  na  toil: 
A  knave  and  fool  are  plants  of  every  soil. 
Nor  need  he  stray  as  far  as  Rome  or  Greece 
To  gather  matter  for  a  serious  piece : 
There  's  themes  enow  in  Caledonian  story 
Would  show  the  tragic  Muse  in  a'  her  glory. 


I 


THE   RIGHTS   OF  WOMAN 


151 


Is  there  uo  daring  Bard  will  rise  and  tell 
How  glorious  Wallace  stood,  how  hapless 

fell? 
Where  are  the  Muses  fled  that  could  pro- 
duce 
A  drama  worthy  o'  the  name  o'  Bruce  ? 
How  here,  even  here,  he  first  unsheath'd 

the  sword 
'Gainst   mighty    England    and   her   guilty 

lord, 
And  after  monie  a  bloody,  deathless  doing, 
Wrench'd  his  dear  country  from  the  jaws 

of  Ruin  ! 
O,  for  a  Shakespeare,  or  an  Otway  scene 
To  paint  the  loveh',  hapless  Scottish  Queen  ! 
Vain  all  th'  omnipotence  of  female  charms 
'Gainst  headlong,  ruthless,  mad  Rebellion's 

arms  ! 
She  fell,  butfell  with  spirit  truly  Roman, 
To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a  rival  woman: 
A  woman  (tho'  the  phrase  may  seem  uncivil) 
As  able  —  and  as  cruel  —  as  the  Devil  ! 
One    Douglas   lives   in   Home's   immortal 

page. 
But  Douglasses  were  heroes  every  age; 
And  tho'  your  fathers,  prodigal  of  life, 
A  Douglas  followed  to  the  martial  strife. 
Perhaps,    if   bowls   row   right,  and   Right 

succeeds. 
Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a  Douglas  leads  ! 

As  ye  hae  generous  done,  if  a'  the  land 
Would    take  the  Muses'  servants   by  the 

hand ; 
Not  only  hear,  but  patronize,  befriend  them. 
And  where  ye  justly  can  commend,  com- 
mend them; 
And  aiblins,  when  they  winna  stand  the  test, 
Wink  hard,  and  say:  "The  folks  hae  done 

their  best  ! " 
Would  a'  the  land  do  this,  then  I  '11   be 

c  ait  ion 
Ye  '11  soon  hae  Poets  o'  the  Scottish  nation 
Will  gar  Fame  blaw  until  her  trumpet  crack. 
And  warsle  Time,  an'  lay  him  on  his  back  ! 

For   us   and    for    our    stage,    should    onie 

spier:  — 
"Whase   aught   thae   chiels   maks   a'  this 

bustle  here  ?  " 
My   best    leg   foremost,    I  '11    set    up    my 

brow:  — 
"  We  have  the  honor  to  belong  to  you  ! " 
We  're  your  ain  bairns,  e'en  guide  us  as  ye 

like, 


But   like    good   mithers,   shore   before   ye 

strike ; 
And  gratef  u'  still,  I  trust  ye  '11  ever  find  us 
For  gen'rous  patronage  and  meikle  kindness 
We  've   got   frae  a'  professions,   setts  an' 

ranks : 
God  help  us  !  we  're  but  poor  —  ye  'se  get 

but  thanks ! 


THE   RIGHTS    OF   WOMAN 

AN   OCCASIONAL   ADDRESS 

SPOKEN  BY  MISS    FONTENELLE  ON   HER  BENEFIT 
NIGHT,    NOVEMBER   26,    I792 

Sent  to  Miss  Fontenelle  in  a  complimentary 
letter :  "  Your  charms  as  a  woman  would  se- 
cure applause  to  the  most  indifferent  actress, 
and  yonr  theatrical  talents  would  secure  admi- 
ration to  the  plainest  figure."  She  is  also  the 
subject  of  a  flattering  Epigram  (p.  189).  Miss 
Fontenelle  won  some  applause  on  the  London 
boards.  Her  name  appears  in  the  obituary  of 
The  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  September,  1800 : 
"  In  Charles- town,  South  Carolina,  a  \-ictira  to 
the  yeUow  fever.  Miss  Fontenelle,  who  made 
her  debut  many  years  ago  at  Covent  Garden, 
and  afterwards  performed  at  the  Haymarket. 
In  America  she  played  under  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Wilkinson." 

While   Europe's  eye    is  fix'd   on  mighty 

things, 
The  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings ; 
While  quacks  of  State  must  each  produce 

his  plan. 
And  even  children  lisp  the  Rights  of  Man; 
Amid  this  mighty  fuss  just  let  me  mention. 
The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 

First,  in  the  sexes'  intermix'd  connexion 
One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  Protection: 
The  tender  flower,  that  lifts  its  head  elate. 
Helpless  must  fall  before  the  blasts  of  fate. 
Sunk  on  the  earth,  defac'd  its  lovely  form. 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th'  impending 
storm. 

Our  second  Right  —  but   needless  here  is 

caution  — 
To  keep  that  right  inviolate  's  the  fashion: 
Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him, 
He'd  die  before  he  'd  wrong  it  —  'tis  De- 
corum ! 


152 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polish'd  days, 

A  time,  when  rough  rude  Man  had  naughty 
ways : 

Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk,  kick  up 
a  riot, 

Nay,  even  thus  invade  a  lady's  quiet ! 

Now,  thank  our  stars  !  these  Gothic  times 
are  fled; 

Now,  well-bred  men  —  and  you  are  all 
well-bred  — 

Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the 
gainers) 

Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  man- 
ners. 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our 

dearest: 
That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts  the 

nearest. 
Which  even  the  Rights  of  Kings,   in  low 

prostration. 
Most  humbly  own  —  't  is  dear,  dear  Admi- 
ration ! 
In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move ; 
There   taste  that   life  of   life  —  Immortal 

Love. 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations, 

airs  — 
'Gainst  such   an   host    what   flinty  savage 

dares  ? 
When    awful    Beauty   joins   with    all    her 

charms. 
Who  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings,  and  truce  with  con- 
stitutions, 
With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions; 
Let  Majesty  your  first  attention  summon: 
Ah  !  ra  ira!  the  Majesty  of  Woman  ! 


ADDRESS 

SPOKEN  BY  MISS  FONTENELLE  ON  HER 
BENEFIT  NIGHT,  DECEMBER  4,  1 793, 
AT   THE   THEATRE,    DUMFRIES 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favor, 

And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night  than 
ever, 

A  Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  mat- 
ter, 

'T  would  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing 
better: 


So  sought  a  Poet  roosted  near  the  skies; 

Told  him  I  came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes; 

Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever 
printed; 

And  last,  my  prologue-business  slily  hinted. 

"  Ma'am,  let  me  tell  you,"  quoth  my  man 
of  rhymes, 

"  I  know  your  bent  —  these  are  no  laugh- 
ing times: 

Can  you  —  but.  Miss,  I  own  I  have  my 
fears  — 

Dissolve  in  pause,  and  sentimental  tears  ? 

With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded  sen- 
tence. 

Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers  fell  Re- 
pentance ? 

Paint  Vengeance,  as  he  takes  his  horrid 
stand. 

Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand. 

Calling  the  storms  to  bear  him  o'er  a  guilty 
land  ?  " 

I  could  no  more  !     Askance  the  creature 

eyeing:  — 
"  D'  ye  think,"  said  I,  "  this  face  was  made 

for  crying  ? 
I  '11    laugh,    that 's    poz  —  nay    more,    the 

world  shall  know  it; 
And    so,    your    servant  !    gloomy   Master 

Poet ! " 

Firm  as  my  creed.  Sirs,  't  is  my  fix'd  be- 
lief 
That  Misery  's  another  word  for  Grief. 
I  also  think  (so  may  I  be  a  bride  !) 
That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life  en- 

joy'd. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh, 
Still  under  bleak  Misfortune's  blasting  eye; 
Doom'd  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive  — 
To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  five; 
Laugh  in  Misfortune's  face  —  the  beldam 

witch  — 
Say,   you  '11  be   merry,   tho'  you  can't  be 

rich  ! 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love/ 
Who  long   with  jiltish  arts  and  airs  hast 

strove : 
Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur'st  in  desperate  thought  —  a   ropej 

—  thy  neck  — 
Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o'erhangs  the! 

deep, 


BIRTHDAY   ODE    FOR   31ST   DECEMBER,    1787 


153 


Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap : 

Wonld'st  thou  be  cur'd,  thou  silly,  moping 
elf? 

Laugh  at  her  follies,  laugh  e'en  at  thy- 
self; 

Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now  so  ter- 
rific, 

And  love  a  kinder:  that  's  your  grand  spe- 
cific. 

To  sum  up  all:  be  merry,  I  advise; 

And  as  we  're  merry,  may  we  still  be  wise  ! 


POLITICAL  PIECES 
ADDRESS    OF   BEELZEBUB 

To  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Breadalbane, 
President  of  the  Right  Honorable  the  Highland  Society, 
which  met  on  the  23rd  of  May  last,  at  the  Shakespeare, 
Covent  Garden,  to  concert  ways  aud  means  to  frustrate 
the  designs  of  five  hundred  Hio;hlanders  who,  as  the 
Society  were  informed  by  Mr.  M'Kenzie  of  Applecrose, 
were  so  audacious  as  to  attempt  an  escape  from  their 
lawful  lords  and  masters  whose  property  they  were,  by 
emigrating  from  the  lands  of  Mr.  Macdonald  of  Glen- 
gary  to  the  wilds  of  Canada,  in  search  of  that  fantastic 
thing  —  Liberty. 

Long  life,  my  lord,  an'  health  be  yours, 
Unskaith'd  by  hunger'd  Highland  boors  ! 
Lord  grant  nae  dud  die,  desperate  beggar, 
Wi'  dirk,  claymore,  or  rusty  trigger. 
May  twin  auld  Scotland  o'  a  life 
She  likes  —  as  lambkins  like  a  knife  ! 

Faith  !  you  and  Applecross  were  right 
To  keep  the  Highland  hounds  iu  sight ! 
I  doubt  na  !  they  wad  bid  nae  better 
Than  let  them  ance  out  owre  the  water  ! 
Then  up  amang  thae  lakes  and  seas, 
They  '11    mak    what   rules   and   laws  they 

please : 
Some  daring  Hancock,  or  a  Franklin, 
May  set  their  Highland  bluid  a-ranklin; 
Some  Washington  again  may  head  them, 
Or  some  Montgomerie,  fearless,  lead  them ; 
Till  (God  knows  what  may  be  effected 
When  by  such  heads  and  hearts  directed) 
Poor  dunghill  sons  of  dirt  an'  mire 
May  to  Patrician  rights  aspire  ! 
Nae  sage  North  now,  nor  sager  Sackville, 
To  watch  and  premier  owre  the  pack  vile  ! 
An'  whare  will  ye  get  Howes   and  Clin- 
tons 


To  bring  them  to  a  right  repentance  ? 

To  cowe  the  rebel  generation, 

An'  save  the  honor  o'  the  nation  ? 

They,  an'  be  damn'd  !  what  right  hae  they 

To  meat  or  sleep  or  light  o'  day. 

Far  less  to  riches,  pow'r,  or  freedom, 

But  what  your  lordship  likes  to  gie  them  ? 

But  hear,  my  lord  !    Glengary,  hear  ! 

Your  hand  's  owre  light  on  them,  I  fear: 

Your  factors,  grieves,  trustees,  and  bailies, 

I  canna  say  but  they  do  gaylies  : 

They  lay  aside  a'  tender  mercies, 

An'  tirl  the  bullions  to  the  birses. 

Yet  while  they  're  only  poind  and  herriet. 

They'll  keep  their  stubborn  Highland  spirit. 

But  smash  them  !  crush  them  a'  to  spails. 

An'  rot  the  dyvors  i'  the  jails  ! 

The  young  dogs,  swinge  them  to  the  labour: 

Let  wark  an'  hunger  mak  them  sober  ! 

The  hizzies,  if  they  're  aughtlins  fawsom. 

Let  them  in  Drury  Lane  be  lesson'd  ! 

An'  if  the  wives  an'  dirty  brats 

Come  thiggin  at  your  doors  an'  yetts, 

Flaffin  wi'  duds  an'  grey  wi'  beas', 

Frightin  awa  your  deuks  an'  geese, 

Get  out  a  horsewhip  or  a  jowler. 

The  langest  thong,  the  fiercest  growler, 

An'  gar  the  tatter'd  gypsies  pack 

Wi'  a'  their  bastards  on  their  back  ! 

Go  on,  my  Lord  !  I  lang  to  meet  you, 
An'  in  my  "  house  at  hame  "  to  greet  you 
Wi'  common  lords  ye  shanna  mingle: 
The  benmost  neuk  beside  the  ingle. 
At  my  right  ban'  assigned  your  seat 
'Tween  Herod's  hip  an'  Polycrate, 
Or  (if  you  on  your  station  tarrow) 
Between  Almagro  and  Pizarro, 
A  seat,  I  'm  sure  ye  're  weel  deservin  't; 
An'  till  ye  come  —  your  humble  servant, 

Beelzebxjb 

Hell, 
1st  June,  Anno  Mundi  5790. 


BIRTHDAY  ODE  FOR  31ST 
DECEMBER,  17S7 

Without  giving  his  authority,  Currie  ac- 
counts for  the  piece  thus :  ''  It  appears  that 
on  the  31st  December  he  (Bums)  attended  a 
meeting'  to  celebrate  the  birthday  of  the  lineal 
descendant  of  the  Scottish  race  of  king's,  the 
late    unfortunate    Prince    Charles    Edward." 


154 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


More  he  knew  uot ;  but  he  assumed  the  "  per- 
fect loyalty  to  the  reigning'  sovereign  of  all 
who  attended  the  meeting,"  and  he  withheld  a 
large  portion  of  the  Ode  because  it  was  "  a  kind 
of  rant,  for  which  indeed  precedent  may  be 
cited  in  various  other  odes,  but  with  which  it 
is  impossible  to  go  along." 

Afar  the  illustrious  Exile  roams, 

Whom  kingdoms  ou  this  day  should 
hail, 
An  inmate  in  the  casual  shed, 
On  transient  pity's  bounty  fed. 

Haunted  by  busy  Memory's  bitter  tale  ! 
Beasts  of  the    forest  have  their  savage 
homes. 
But  He,  who  should  imperial  purple 
\year. 
Owns  not  the  lap  of  earth  where  rests  his 
royal  head : 
His  wretched  refuge  dark  despair, 
While  ravening  wrongs  and  woes  pursue, 
And  distant  far  the  faithful  few 
Who  would  his  sorrows  share  ! 

False  flatterer,  Hope,  away. 

Nor  think  to  lure  us   as   in   days    of 
yore  ! 
We  solemnize  this  sorrowing  natal  day, 
To  prove  our  loyal  truth  —  we  can  no 
more  — 
And,  owning  Heaven's  mysterious  sway, 

Submissive,  low,  adore. 
Ye  honored,  mighty  Dead, 

Who   nobly  perish'd   in   the    glorious 

cause. 
Your  King,    your    Country,    and   her 
laws: 
From  great  Dundee,  who  smiling  Victory 

led 
And  fell  a  Martyr  in  her  arms 
(What     breast    of     northern     ice     but 

warms  !), 
To  bold  Balmerino's  undying  name. 
Whose  soul  of  fire,  lighted  at  Heaven's 
high  flame. 
Deserves   the    proudest   wreath    departed 
heroes  claim  ! 

Not  unrevenged  your  fate  shall  lie, 

It  only  lags,  the  fatal  hour: 
Your  blood  shall  with  incessant  cry 

Awake  at  last  th'  unsparing  Power. 
As  from  the  cliff,  with  thundering  course. 

The  snowy  ruin  smokes  along 
With  doubling  speed  and  gathering  force, 


Till  deep  it,  crushing,  whelms  the  cottage 
in  the  vale. 
So     Vengeance'     arm,     ensanguin'd, 
strong. 
Shall  with  resistless  might  assail, 
Usurping  Brunswick's  pride  shall  lay. 
And  Stewart's  wrongs  and  yours  with  ten- 
fold weight  repay. 

Perdition,  baleful  child  of  night. 
Rise  and  revenge  the  injured  right 

Of  Stewart's  royal  race  ! 
Lead  on  the  unmuzzled  hounds  of  Hell, 
Till  all  the  frighted  echoes  tell 

The  blood-notes  of  the  chase  ! 
Full  on  the  quarry  point  their  view. 
Full  on  the  base  usurping  crew. 
The  tools  of  faction  and  the  nation's  curse  ! 
Hark  how  the  cry  grows  on  the  wind; 
They  leave  the  lagging  gale  behind ; 
Tbeir  savage  fury,  pityless,  they  pour; 
With  murdering  eyes  already  they  de- 
vour ! 
See  Brunswick  spent,  a  wretched  prey, 
His  life  one  poor  despairing  day, 
Where  each  avenging  hour  still  ushers  in  a 
worse  ! 
Such  Havoc,  howling  all  abroad, 

Their  utter  ruin  bring, 
The  base  apostates  to  their  God 
Or  rebels  to  their  King  ! 


ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTED 
REGENCY  BILL 

George  III.  began  to  show  signs  of  mental  de- 
rangement on  22d  October,  1788  ;  and  on  5th 
December  his  physicians  reported  that,  al- 
though he  was  not  incurable,  it  was  impossible 
to  predict  how  long  his  illness  might  last.  Fox 
and  the  "  Portland  Band  "  ((.  e.  the  Whigs)  who 
hoped  to  return  to  power  through  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  maintained  that  the  Heir-Apparent 
must  take  up  the  Regency  with  plenary  sov- 
ereign powers ;  but  on  16th  December  Pitt 
brought  in  resolutions  for  appointing  him  Re- 
gent with  restricted  authority.  The  Bill  passed 
the  Commons  on  11th  February,  1789,  but  its 
progress  was  suspended  by  the  announcement 
of  the  Chancellor  on  the  19th  that  the  King 
was  convalescent ;  and  on  10th  March  he  re- 
sumed his  state. 

Daughter  of  Chaos'  doting  years, 
Nurse  of  ten  thousand  hopes  and  fears  ! 


A   NEW   PSALM    FOR   THE   CHAPEL   OF   KILMARNOCK     155 


Whether  thy  aii\y,  iiusubstautial  shade 
(The  rights  of  sepulture  now  duly  paid) 
Spread  abroad  its  hideous  form 
On  the  roaring  civil  storm, 
Deafening  din  and  warring  rage 
Factions  wild  with  factious  wage; 

Or  Underground 

Deep-sunk,  profound 
Among  the  demons  of  the  earth, 

With  groans  that  make 

The  mountains  shake 
Thou  mourn  thy  ill-starr'd  blighted  birth; 
Or  in  the  uncreated  Void, 

Where  seeds  of  future  being  fight, 
With  lighteu'd  step  thou  wander  wide 

To  greet  thy  mother  —  Ancient  Night  — 
And  as  each  jarring  monster-mass  is  past, 
Fond  recollect  what  once  thou  wast: 
In  manner  due,  beneath  this  sacred  oak, 
Hear,    Spirit,    hear  !    thy    presence    I    in- 
voke ! 

By  a  Monarch's  heaven-struck  fate; 

By  a  disunited  State; 

By  a  generous  Prince's  wrongs; 

By  a  Senate's  war  of  tongues; 

By  a  Premier's  sullen  pride 

Louring  ou  the  changing  tide; 

By  dread  Thurlow's  powers  to  awe  — 

Rhetoric,  blasphemy,  and  law; 

By  the  turbulent  ocean, 

A  Nation's  commotion; 

By  the  harlot-caresses 

Of  Borough  addresses; 

By  days  few  and  evil; 

(Thy  portion,  poor  de\'il  !), 

By  Power,  Wealth,  and  Show  —  the  Gods 

by  men  adored; 
By  nameless  Poverty  their  Hell  abhorred ; 

By  all  they  hope,  by  all  they  fear, 

Hear  !  and  Appear  ! 

Stare  not  on  me,  thou  ghostly  Power, 

Nor,  grim  with  chain'd  defiance,  lour  ! 

No  Babel-structure  would  I  build 

Where,  Order  exil'd  from  his  native  sway, 
■  Confusion  might  the  Regent-sceptre  wield, 
I       While  all  would  rule  and  none  obey, 
f  Go,  to  the  world  of  Man  relate 

The  story  of  thy  sad,  eventful  fate; 

And  call  presumptuous  Hope  to  hear 

And  bid  him  check  his  blind  career; 

And  tell  the  sore-prest  sons  of  Care 
Never,  never  to  despair  ! 


Paint  Charles's  speed  on  wings  of  fire, 
The  object  of  his  fond  desire, 
Beyond  his  boldest  hopes,  at  hand. 
Paint  all  the  triumph  of  the  Portland  Band 
(Hark  !  how  they  lift  the  joy-exulting  voice, 
And  how  their  num'rous  creditors  rejoice  !) ; 
But  just  as  hopes  to  warm  enjoyment  rise, 
Cry  "  Convalescence  !  "  and  the  vision  flies. 

Then  next  pourtray  a  dark'uing   twilight 
gloom 
Eclipsing  sad  a  gay,  rejoicing  morn, 
While  proud  Ambition  to  tli'  untimely  tomb 
By  gnashing,  grim,  despairing  fiends  is 
borne  ! 
Paint  Ruin,  in  the  shape  of  high  Dundas 

Gaping  with  giddy  terror  o'er  the  brow: 

In  vain  he  struggles,  the  Fates  behind  him 

press. 

And  clamorous  Hell  yawns  for  her  prey 

below  ! 

How  fallen  That,  whose  pride  late  scaled 

the  skies  ! 
And  Tliis,  like  Lucifer,  no  more  to  rise  ! 

Again  pronounce  the  powerful  word: 
See  Day,  triumphant  from   the  night,  re- 
stored ! 

Then  know  this  truth,  ye  Sons  of  Men 
(Thus  ends  thy  moral  tale) : 

Your  darkest  terrors  may  be  vain. 
Your  brightest  hopes  may  fail ! 


A     NEW     PSALM     FOR     THE 
CHAPEL  OF  KILMARNOCK 

on    the    thanksgiving-day    for    his 
majesty's  recovery 

In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  of  4th  April,  1789, 
[probably  for  4th  May],  Bums  wrote  :  "  The 
following  are  a  few  stanzas  of  new  Psalmody 
for  that  '  joyful  solemnity '  [the  Thanks- 
giving for  the  King's  recovery]  which  I  sent 
to  a  London  newspaper  with  the  date  and 
preface  following  :  '  Kilmarnock.  25th  April. 
Mr.  Printer, — In  a  certain  chapel,  not  fifty 
leagues  from  the  market  cross  of  this  good 
town,  the  following  stanzas  of  Psalmody,  it  is 
said,  were  composed  for,  and  devoutly  sung  ou, 
the  late  jo^-ful  solemnity  of  the  23d.'  "  The 
paper  was  Stuart's  ^lorning  Star,  where  parody 
and  letter,  dated  "  Kilmarnock,  April  30th.'' 
and  signed  "Duncan   M'Leerie"  —  the  hero 


iS6 


POSTHUMOUS    PIECES 


he   of  an  old    Kilmarnock  song  preserved  in 
The  Merry  Muses  —  appeared  on  May  14tli. 


O,  SING  a  new  song  to  the  Lord ! 

Make,  all  and  every  one, 
A  joyful  noise,  ev'n  for  the  King 

His  restoration  ! 


The  sons  of  Belial  in  the  land 

Did  set  their  heads  together. 
"  Come,  let  us  sweep  them  off,"  said  they, 

"  Like  an  o'ei-flowing  river  !  " 


They  set  their  heads  together,  I  say, 
They  set  their  heads  together: 

On  right,  and  left,  and  every  hand, 
We  saw  none  to  deliver. 

IV 

Thou  madest  strong  two  chosen  ones, 
To  quell  the  Wicked's  pride: 

That  Young  Man,  great  in  Issachar, 
The  burden-bearing  tribe; 


And  him,  among  the  Princes,  chief 

In  our  Jerusalem, 
The  Judge  that's  mighty  in  Thy  law, 

The  man  that  fears  Thy  name. 


Yet  they,  even  they  with  all  their  strength, 

Began  to  faint  and  fail; 
Even  as  two  howling,  rav'ning  wolves 

To  dogs  do  turn  their  tail. 

VII 

Th'  ungodly  o'er  the  just  prevail'd; 

For  so  Thou  hadst  appointed, 
That  Thou  might'st  greater  glory  give 

Unto  Thine  own  anointed  ! 


And  now  Thou  hast  restored  our  State, 

Pity  our  Kirk  also; 
For  she  by  tribulations 

Is  now  brought  very  low  ! 


Consume  that  high-place.  Patronage, 
From  ofP  Thy  holy  hUl; 


And  in  Thy  fury  burn  the  book 
Even  of  that  man  M'Gill  ! 


Now  hear  our  prayer,  accept  our  song. 
And  fight  Thy  chosen's  battle  ! 

We  seek  but  little,  Lord,  from  Thee: 
Thou  kens  we  get  as  little  ! 


INSCRIBED    TO    THE    RIGHT 
HON.   C.   J.   FOX 

Enclosed  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  in  the  same  letter 
as  the  preceding  piece  :  "  I  have  another  poetic 
whim  in  my  head,  which  I  at  present  dedicate, 
or  rather  inscribe,  to  the  Hon.  Charles  J.  Fox  ; 
but  how  long  the  fancy  may  hold  I  can't  say. 
A  few  of  the  first  lines  I  have  just  rough 
sketched  as  follows." 

II ow  Wisdom  and  Folly  meet,  mix,  and 
unite, 

How  Virtue  and  Vice  blend  their  black 
and  their  white, 

IIow  Genius,  th'  illustrious  father  of  fiction. 

Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  contra- 
diction, 

I  sing.  If  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should 
bustle, 

I  care  not,  not  I  :  let  the  critics  go  whistle! 

But  now  for  a  Patron,  whose  name  and 
whose  glory 
At    once   may   illustrate   and   honour   my 
story  :  — 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits, 

Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem 
mere  lucky  hits; 

With  knowledge  so  vast  and  with  judg- 
ment so  strong. 

No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  could  go 
wrong; 

With  passions  so  potent  and  fancies  so 
bright, 

No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  could  go 
right ; 

A  sorry,  poor,  misbegot  son  of  the  Muses, 

For  using  thy  name,  offers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  Lord,  what  is  Man  !    For  as  simply 
he  looks, 
Do  but  try  to  develop  his  hooks  and  bi^ 
crooks  ! 


ON  GLENRIDDELL'S   FOX   BREAKING   HIS   CHAIN 


157 


With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good 

and  his  evil, 
All  in  all  he  's  a  problem  must  puzzle  the 

DevU. 

On  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely 
labors, 

That,  like  th'  old  Hebrew  walking-switch, 
eats  up  its  neighbours. 

Human  Nature  's  his  show-box  —  your 
friend,  would  you  know  him  ? 

Pull  the  string,  Ruling  Passion  —  the  pic- 
ture will  show  him. 

What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a  sys- 
tem. 

One  trifling  particular  —  Truth  —  should 
have  miss'd  him  ! 

For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions, 

Mankind  is  a  science  defies  definitions. 

Some  sort  all  our   qualities  each  to  its 

tribe. 
And  think  Human  Nature  they  truly  de- 
scribe : 
Have  you  found  this,  or  t'other  ?     There 's 

more  in  the  wind. 
As  by  one  drunken   fellow  his   comrades 

you  '11  find. 
But  such  is  the  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  the  plan 
In  the  make  of  that  wonderful   creature 

called  Man, 
No   two   virtues,   whatever    relation   they 

claim, 
Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the  same, 
Though  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother  to 

brother. 
Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you  've  the 

other. 

But   truce   with  abstraction,    and   truce 

with  a  Muse 
Whose  rhymes  you  '11  perhaps.  Sir,  ne'er 

deign  to  peruse  ! 
Will  you  leave    your   justings,  your  jars, 

and  your  quarrels, 
Contending  with  Billy  for  proud-nodding 

laurels  ? 
My  much-honour'd    Patron,   believe    your 

poor  Poet, 
Tour  courage  much  more  than  your  pru- 
dence you  show  it. 
In  vain  with  Squire  Billy  for  laurels  you 

struggle : 
He  '11  have  them  by  fair  trade  —  if  not,  he 

will  smuggle; 


Nor  cabinets  even  of  kings  would  conceal 
'em. 

He  'd  up  the  back-stairs,  and  by  God  he 
would  steal  'em  ! 

Then  feats  like  Squire  Billy's,  you  ne'er 
can  achieve  'em; 

It  is  not,  out-do  him  —  the  task  is,  out- 
thieve  him  ! 


ON     GLENRIDDELL'S      FOX 
BREAKING   HIS    CHAIN 

A   FRAGMENT,    179I 

Thou,  Liberty,  thou  art  my  theme  : 
Not  such  as  idle  poets  dream. 
Who  trick  thee  up  a  heathen  goddess 
That  a  fantastic  cap  and  rod  has  ! 
Such  stale  conceits  are  poor  and  silly: 
I  paint  thee  out  a  Highland  filly, 
A  sturdy,  stubborn,  handsome  dapple, 
As  sleek  's  a  mouse,  as  round  's  au  apple, 
That,  when  thou  pleasest,  can  do  wonders, 
But  when  thy  luckless  rider  blunders. 
Or  if  thy  fancy  should  demur  there. 
Wilt  break  thy  neck  ere  thou  go  further. 

These  things  premis'd,  I  sing  a  Fox  — 
Was  caught  among  his  native  rocks. 
And  to  a  dirty  kennel  chained  — 
How  he  his  liberty  regained. 

Glenriddell  !  a  Whig  Avithout  a  stain, 
A  Whig  in  principle  and  grain, 
Could'st   thou   enslave    a   free-born    crea- 
ture, 
A  native  denizen  of  Nature  ? 
How  could'st  thou,  with  a  heart  so  good 
(A  better  ne'er  was  sluiced  with  blood). 
Nail  a  poor  devil  to  a  tree, 
That  ne'er  did  harm  to  thine  or  thee  ? 

The  staunchest  Whig  Glenriddel  was, 
Quite  frantic  in  his  country's  cause; 
And  oft  was  Reynard's  prison  passing. 
And  with  his  brother-Whigs  canvassing 
The  rights  of  men,  the  powers  of  women, 
With  all  the  dignity  of  Freemen. 

Sir  Reynard  daily  heard  debates 
Of  princes',  kings',  and  nations'  fates, 
With  many  rueful,  bloody  stories 
Of  tyrants,  Jacobites,  and  Tories  : 


XS8 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


From  liberty  how  angels  fell, 
That  now  are  galley-slaves  in  Hell; 
How  Nimrod  first  the  trade  began 
Of  binding  Slavery's  chains  on  man; 
How  fell  feemirauiis  —  God  damn  her  !  — 
Did  first,  with  sacrilegious  hammer 
(All  ills  till  then  were  trivial  matters) 
For  Man  dethron'd  forge  hen-peck  fetters; 
How  Xerxes,  that  abandoned  Tory, 
Thought  cutting  throats  was  reaping  glory, 
Until  the  stubborn  Whigs  of  Sparta 
Taught  him  great  Nature's  Magna  Charta; 
How  mighty  Rome  her  fiat  hurl'd 
Resistless  o'er  a  bowing  world. 
And,  kinder  than  they  did  desire, 
Polish'd  mankind  with  sword  and  fire: 
With  much  too  tedious  to  relate 
Of  ancient  and  of  modern  date, 
But  ending  still  how  Billy  Pitt 
(Unlucky  boy  !)  with  wicked  wit 
Has  gagg'd  old  Britain,  drained  her  coffer. 
As  butchers  bind  and  bleed  a  heifer. 

Thus  wily  Reynard,  by  degrees 
In  kennel  listening  at  his  ease, 
Suck'd  in  a  mighty  stock  of  knowledge, 
As  much  as  some  folks  at  a  college; 
Knew  Britain's  rights  and  constitution, 
Her  aggrandisement,  diminution; 
How  Fortune  wrought  us  good  from  evil: 
Let  no  man,  then,  despise  the  De\'il, 
As  who   should   say:    "I  ne'er   can   need 

him," 
Since  we  to  scoundrels  owe  our  Freedom. 


OX    THE    COMMEMORATION    OF 
RODNEY'S    VICTORY 

king's   arms,    DUiMFRIES,    I2TH    APRIL, 
1793 

Rodney's  action  off  Dominica,  12th  April, 
1792,  was  for  some  time  celebrated  year  by 
year. 

Instead  of  a  song,  boys,  I  '11  give  you  a 

toast: 
Here  's  the  Mem'ry  of  those  on  the  Twelfth 

that  we  lost  !  — 
We  lost,   did   I   say  ?  —  No,   by   Heav'n, 

that  we  found  ! 
For  their  fame  it  shall  live  while  the  world 

goes  round. 


The  next  in   succession  I'll  give  you:  the 

King  ! 
And  who  would  betray  him,  on  high  may 

he  swing  ! 
And    here  's   the    grand   fabric,    our   Free 

Constitution 
As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Revolu- 
tion ! 
And,  longer  with  Politics  not  to  be  cramm'd, 
Be    Anarchy     curs'd,     and     be     Tyranny 

damn'd  ! 
And   who   would   to    Liberty   e'er    prove 

disloj-al. 
May  his  son  be  a  hangman  —  and  he  his 

first  trial  ! 


ODE   FOR   GENERAL   WASHING- 
TON'S   BIRTHDAY 

"I  am  just  going  to  trouble  your  critical 
patience  with  the  first  sketch  of  a  stanza  I 
have  been  framing  as  I  paced  along  the  road. 
The  subject  is  Liberty  :  you  know,  my  honoured 
friend,  how  dear  the  theme  is  to  me.  I  de- 
sign it  as  an  irregular  ode  for  General  Wash- 
ington's birthday.''  (R.  B.  to  Mrs.  Dunlop, 
i:5th  June,  1794.) 

No  Spartan  tube,  no  Attic  shell, 

No  lyre  .3^olian  I  awake. 
'T  is  Liberty's  bold  note  I  swell: 

Thy  harp,  Columbia,  let  me  take  ! 

See  gathering  thousands,  while  I  sing, 

A  broken  chain,  exulting,  bring 

And  dash  it  in  a  tyrant's  face, 

And  dare  him  to  his  ver}'  beard. 

And  tell  him  he  no  more  is  fear'd, 

No   more   the   despot   of    Columbia's 
race  ! 
A  tyrant's  proudest  insults  brav'd, 
They  shout  a  People  freed  !     They  hail  an 
Empire  sav'd  ! 

Where  is  man's  godlike  form  ? 

Where  is  that  brow  erect  and  bold, 
That  eye  that  can  unmov'd  behold 
The  wildest  rage,  the  loudest  storm 
Tliat  e'er  created  Fury  dared  to  raise  ? 
Avaunt  !  thou  caitiff,  servile,  base, 
That  tremblest  at  a  despot's  nod. 
Yet,  crouching  under  the  iron  rod, 
Canst  laud  the  arm  that  struck  th'  insalt- 
jng  blow  I 


THE    FJ^TE   CHAMPfeTRE 


159 


Art  thou  of  man's  Imperial  line  ? 

Dost  boast  that  countenance  divine  ? 
i       Each  skulking  feature  answers:  No  ! 

But  come,  ye  sons  of  Liberty, 
i  Columbia's  offspring,  brave  as  free, 

In  danger's  hour  still  flaming  in  the  van. 

Ye  know,  and  dare  maintain  the  Royalty 
of  Man  ! 

,  Alfred,  on  thy  starry  throne 

Surrounded  by  the  tuneful  choir, 
J       The    Bards    that   erst   have    struck    the 
I  patriot  lyre. 

And  rous'd  the  freeborn  Briton's  soul  of 
fire, 
No  more  thy  England  own  ! 
Dare  injured  nations  form  the  great  design 
To  make  detested  tyrants  bleed  ? 
Thy    England    execrates    the    glorious 

deed  ! 
Beneath  her  hostile  banners  waving. 
Every  pang  of  honour  braving, 
England  in  thunder  calls:     "The  tyrant's 

cause  is  mine  !  " 
That  hour  accurst  how  did  the  fiends  rejoice, 
And   Hell  thro'  all  her  confines   raise  th' 

exulting  voice  ! 
That  hour  which  saw  the  generous  English 

name 
Link't   with   such  damned  deeds  of  ever- 
lasting shame  ! 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 
Fam'd  for  the  martial  deed,   the  heaven- 
taught  song. 

To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  ej'es  ! 
Where  is  that  soul  of  Freedom  fled  ? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead 

Beneath  that  hallow'd  turf  where  Wallace 
lies  ! 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death  ! 

Ye  babbling  winds,  in  silence  sweep  ! 

Disturb  not  ye  the  hero's  sleep, 
Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath  ! 
Is  this  the  ancient  Caledonian  form. 
Firm  as  her  rock,  resistless  as  her  storm  ? 
Show  me  that  eye  which  shot  immortal  hate, 

Blasting  the  Despot's  proudest  bearing  ! 
Show   me    that   arm     which,    nerv'd   with 
thundering  fate, 

Crush'd  Usurpation's  boldest  daring  ! 
Dark-quench'd  as  yonder  sinking  star, 
No  more  that  glance  lightens  afar. 
That   palsied  arm  no  more  whirls  on  the 
waste  of  war. 


THE    FETE    CHAMPETRE 

Tune  :  Killiccrankie 

This  is  the  earliest  of  a  series  of  election 
ballads,  all  in  some  sort  parodies  of  popular 
pieces.  Regarding  the  genesis  of  this  one,  see 
ante,  p.  75,  Prefatory  Note  to  When  Guilford 
Hood,  and  post,  p.  227,  Prefatory  Note  to  The 
Buttle  of  Sherramuir.  It  celebrates  an  enter- 
tainment given  by  William  Cunningham  of 
Annbank  in  1788,  on  attaining  his  majority, 
but  intended  (so  men  held)  to  serve  a  political 
end  as  well. 


O,  WHA  will  to  Saint  Stephen's  House, 

To  do  our  errands  there,  man  ? 
O,  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen's  House 

O'  th'  merry  lads  of  Ayr,  man  ? 
Or  will  ye  send  a  man  o'  law  ? 

Or  will  ye  send  a  sodger  ? 
Or  him  wha  led  o'er  Scotland  a* 

The  meikle  Ursa-Major  ? 


Come,  will  ye  court  a  noble  lord. 

Or  buy  a  score  o'  lairds,  man  ? 
For  Worth  and  Honour  pawn  their  word, 

Their  vote  shall  be  Glencaird's,  man. 
Ane  gies  them  coin,  ane  gies  them  wine, 

Anither  gies  them  clatter; 
Annbank,  wha  gness'd  the  ladies'  taste. 

He  gies  a  Fete  Champetre. 

HI 

When  Love  and  Beauty  heard  the  news 

The  gay  green-woods  amang,  man. 
Where,    gathering    flowers    and    busking 
bowers. 

They  heard  the  blackbird's  sang,  man; 
A  vow,  they  seal'd  it  with  a  kiss, 

Sir  Politics  to  fetter: 
As  theirs  alone  the  patent  bliss 

To  hold  a  Fete  Champetre. 


Then  moimted  Mirth  on  gleesome  wing, 

O'er  hill  and  dale  she  flew,  man; 
Ilk  wimpling  burn,  ilk  crystal  spring, 

Ilk  glen  and  shaw  she  knew,  man. 
She  summon'd  every  social  sprite, 

Tliat  sports  by  wood  or  water, 
On  th'  bonie  banks  of  Ayr  to  meet 

And  keep  this  Fete  Champetre. 


i6o 


POSTHUMOUS    PIECES 


Cauld  Boreas  vd'  his  boisterous  crew 

Were  bound  to  stakes  like  kye,  man; 
And  Cynthia's  car,  o'  silver  fu', 

Clamb  up  the  starry  sky,  man: 
Keflected  beams  dwell  in  the  streams, 

Or  down  the  current  shatter; 
The   western    breeze    steals    through   the 
trees 

To  view  this  Fete  Champetre. 


How  many  a  robe  sae  gaily  floats. 

What  sparkling  jewels  glance,  man, 
To  Harmony's  enchanting  notes. 

As  moves  the  mazy  dance,  man  ! 
The  echoing  wood,  the  winding  flood 

Like  Paradise  did  glitter. 
When  angels  met  at  Adam's  yett 

To  hold  their  Fete  Champetre. 


When  Politics  came  there  to  mix 

And  make  his  ether-stane,  man. 
He  circled  round  the  magic  ground. 

But  entrance  found  he  nane,  man: 
He  blush'd  for  shame,  he  quat  his  name, 

Forswore  it  every  letter, 
Wi'  humble  prayer  to  join  and  share 

This  festive  Fete  Champetre. 


THE  FIVE  CARLINS 

Tune  :  C/ieiy  Chase 

The  Five  Carlins  were  of  course  the  Dumfries 
Parliamentary  Burghs.  On  29th  October,  1789, 
soon  after  the  beginning  of  the  contest.  Burns 
sent  a  copy  of  this  brilliant  pastiche  of  the  folk- 
ballad  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  prefacing  it  with  a  mi- 
nute account  of  the  state  of  parties,  and  indicat- 
ing pretty  plainly  that  his  sympathies  were  with 
Sir  James  Johnstone  of  Westerhall,  who  had 
represented  the  Burghs  in  the  previous  parlia- 
ment. The  other  candidate.  Captain  Patrick 
Miller  —  a  young  officer  of  twenty  —  the  son 
of  his  landlord,  he  describes  as  the  "  creature  " 
of  the  Duke  of  Queensberry.  To  Graham  of 
Fintry  he  wrote  on  9th  December  that  he  was 
"  too  little  a  man  to  have  any  political  attach- 
ments ;  "  that  he  had  "  the  warmest  veneration 
for  individuals  of  both  parties  ;  "  but  "  that  a 
man  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  be  the  father 
of  a  country,  and  who  is  only  known  to  that 


country  by  the  mischiefs  he  does  in  it,  is  a  char- 
acter that  one  cannot  speak  of  with  patience." 
Captain  Miller  won  the  election,  and  repre- 
sented the  Burghs  till  1796.  It  was  through 
him  that  Mr.  Perry  of  The  Morning  Chronicle 
proposed  that  Bums  should  join  his  staff  in 
1794. 


There  was  five  carlins  in  the  South: 

They  fell  upon  a  scheme 
To  send  a  lad  to  Lon'on  town 

To  bring  them  tidings  hame: 


Nor  only  bring  them  tidings  hame, 

But  do  their  errands  there: 
And  aiblins  gowd  and  honor  baith 

Might  be  that  laddie's  share. 

Ill 

There  was  Maggie  by  the  banks  o'  Kith, 

A  dame  wi'  pride  eneugh; 
And  Marjorie  o'  the  Monie  Lochs, 

A  carlin  auld  and  teugh ; 

IV 
And  Blinkin  Bess  of  Annandale, 

That  dwelt  near  Solway-side; 
And  Brandy  Jean,  that  took  her  gill 

In  Galloway  sae  wide; 


And  Black  Jodn,  frae  Crichton  Peel, 

O'  gipsy  kith  an'  kin: 
Five  wighter  carlins  were  na  found 

The  South  countrie  within. 


To  send  a  lad  to  London  town 

They  met  upon  a  day; 
And  monie  a  knight  and  monie  a  laird 

This  errand  fain  wad  gae. 


O,  monie  a  knight  and  monie  a  laird 
This  errand  fain  wad  gae; 

But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please, 
O,  ne'er  a  ane  but  tway  ! 


The  first  ane  was  a  belted  Knight, 
Bred  of  a  Border  band; 

And  he  wad  gae  to  London  Town, 
Might  nae  man  him  withstand; 


ELECTION    BALLAD    FOR   WESTERHA' 


i6i 


*  And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel, 

And  meikle  he  wad  say; 

*  And  ilka  ane  at  London  court 

Wad  bid  to  him  guid-day. 


The  neist  cam  in,  a  Soger  boy, 
And  spak  wi'  modest  grace; 

And  he  wad  gae  to  London  Town, 
If  sae  their  pleasure  was. 


He  wad  na  hecht  them  courtly  gifts, 
Nor  meikle  speech  pretend ; 

But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart 
Wad  ne'er  desert  his  friend. 


Now  wham  to  chuse  and  wham  refuse 

At  strife  thae  carlins  fell; 
For  some  had  gentle  folk  to  please. 

And  some  wad  please  themsel. 


Then  out  spak  mim-mou'd  Meg  o'  Nith, 

And  she  spak  up  wi'  pride. 
And  she  wad  send  the  Soger  lad, 

Whatever  might  betide. 

XIV 

For  the  auld  Guidman  o'  London  court 

She  didna  care  a  pin; 
But  she  wad  send  the  Soger  lad 

To  greet  his  eldest  son. 


Then  up  sprang  Bess  o'  Annandale, 

And  swore  a  deadly  aith, 
Says:  —  "  I  will  send  the  belted  Knight, 

Spite  of  you  carlins  baith  ! 

XVI 

"  For  far-aff  fowls  hae  feathers  fair. 
And  fools  o'  change  are  fain; 

But  I  hae  tried  this  Border  Knight: 
I'll  try  him  yet  again." 

XVII 

Then  Brandy  Jean  spak  owre  her  drink: 

"  Ye  weel  ken,  kimmers  a'. 
The  auld  Guidman  o'  London  court, 

His  back  's  been  at  the  wa'; 


"  And  monie  a  friend  that  kiss'd  his  caup 

Is  now  a  f remit  wight; 
But  it 's  ne'er  be  sae  wi'  Brandy  Jean  — 

I  '11  send  the  Border  Knight." 


XIX 


Says  Black  Jo^n  frae  Crichton  Peel, 

A  carlin  stoor  and  grim :  — 
"  The  auld  Guidman  or  the  young  Guidman 

For  me  may  sink  or  swim  ! 


XX 


"  For  fools  will  prate  o'  right  or  wrang. 
While  knaves  laugh  in  their  slieve; 

But  wha  blaws  best  the  horn  shall  win  — 
I  '11  spier  nae  courtier's  leave  !  " 


Then  slow  raise  Marjorie  o'  the  Lochs, 
And  wrinkled  was  her  brow, 

Her  ancient  weed  was  russet  gray. 
Her  auld  Scots  heart  was  true :  — 


"  There  's  some  great  folk  set  light  by  me, 

I  set  as  light  by  them; 
But  I  will  send  to  London  town 

Wham  I  lo'e  best  at  hame." 

XXIII 

Sae  how  this  sturt  and  strife  may  end, 

There  's  naebody  can  tell. 
God  grant  the  King  and  ilka  man 

May  look  weel  to  themsel ! 


ELECTION    BALLAD    FOR   WES- 
TERHA' 

Wiitten  on  behalf  of  Sir  James  Johnstone, 
and  modelled  on  the  Jacobite  ballad  Up  and 
Waur  them  A\  Willie.  In  the  letter  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop  enclosing-  the  preceding  ballad  Burns 
■wrote  of  the  Duke  of  Queensberry :  "  His 
Grace  is  keenly  attached  to  the  Buff  and  Blue 
party  ;  renegades  and  Apostates  are,  you  know, 
always  keen." 

Up  and  waur  them  a',  Jamie, 

Up  and  waur  them  a'  ! 
The  Johnstones  hae  the  guidin  o't: 

Ye  turncoat  Whigs,  awa  ! 


l62 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


The  Laddies  by  the  banks  o'  Nith 
Wad  trust  his  Grace  wi'  a',  Jamie; 

But  he  '11  sair  them  as  he  sair'd  the  King- 
Turu  tail  and  rin  awa,  Jamie. 


The  day  he  stude  his  country's  friend, 
Or  gied  her  faes  a  claw,  Jamie, 

Or  f rae  puir  man  a  blessin  wan  — 
That  day  the  Duke  ne'er  saw,  Jamie. 


But  wha  is  he,  his  country's  boast  ? 

Like  him  there  is  na  twa,  Jamie  ! 
There  's  no  a  callant  tents  the  kye 

But  kens  o'  Westerha',  Jamie. 


To  end  the  wark,  here  's  Whistlebirk  — 
Lang  may  his  whistle  blaw,  Jamie  !  — 

And  Maxwell  true,  o'  sterling  blue, 
And  we  '11  be  Johnstones  a',  Jamie. 

Up  and  waur  them  a',  Jamie, 

Up  and  waur  them  a'  ! 
The  Johnstones  hae  the  guidin  o't: 

Ye  turncoat  Whigs,  awa  ! 

AS    I    CAM    DOON    THE    BANKS 
O'    NITH 

William  Dong-las,  fourth  Duke  of  Queens- 
berry  (1724-1810),  the  notorious  "  Old  Q.,"  is 
"  his  Grace  "  of  the  last  ballad  and  is  satirised 
again  in  the  following-  not  hitherto*-  printed. 
Queensberry  supported  the  proposal  that  the 
Prince  of  ^Vales  shoidd  assume  the  govern- 
ment, with  full  royal  prerogatives,  during  the 
King's  illness. 

As  I  cam  doon  the  banks  o'  Nith 
And  by  Glenrid dell's  ha',  man, 

There  I  heard  a  piper  play 
Turn-coat  Whigs  awa,  man. 

Drumlanrig's  towers  hae  tint  the  powers 
That  kept  the  lands  in  awe,  man: 

The  eagle  's  dead,  and  in  his  stead 
W^e  've  gotten  a  hoodie-craw,  man. 

The  turn-coat  Duke  his  King  forsook. 
When  his  back  was  at  the  wa',  man; 

1  That  is,  before  the  Centenary  Edition. 


The  rattan  ran  wi'  a'  his  clan 

For  fear  the  house  should  fa',  man. 

The  lads  about  the  banks  o'  Nith, 
They  trust  his  Grace  for  a',  man: 

But  he  '11  sair  them  as  he  sair't  his  King, 
Turn  tail  and  rin  awa,  man. 


ELECTION    BALLAD 

AT  CLOSE   OF   THE   CONTEST   FOR  REPRE- 
SENTING  THE   DUMFRIES   BURGHS,    1 79O 

ADDRESSED  TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM  OF  FINTRY 

For  Graham  of  Fintry,  see  ante,  p  8.5. 

I 

Fintry,  my  stay  in  worldly  strife. 
Friend  o'  my  Muse,  friend  o'  my  life, 

Are  ye  as  idle  's  I  am  ? 
Come,  then  !     Wi'  uncouth  kintra  fleg 
O'er  Pegasus  I  '11  fling  my  leg. 

And  ye  shall  see  me  try  liim  ! 


But  where  shall  I  gae  rin  or  ride, 
That  I  may  splatter  nane  beside  ? 

I  wad  na  be  uncivil: 
In  mankind's  various  paths  and  ways 
There  's  ay  some  doytin  body  strays, 

And  I  ride  like  a  devil. 

Ill 

Thus  I  break  afP  wi'  a'  my  birr, 
An'  down  yon  dark,  deep  alley  spur, 

Where  Theologies  dander: 
Alas  !  curst  wi'  eternal  fogs. 
And  damn'd  in  everlasting  bogs, 

As  sure  's  the  Creed  I '11  blunder  ! 


I  '11  stain  a  band,  or  janp  a  gown. 
Or  rin  my  reckless,  guilty  crown 

Against  the  haly  door  ! 
Sair  do  I  rue  my  luckless  fate. 
When,  as  the  Muse  an'  Deil  wad  hae  't, 

I  rade  that  road  before  ! 


Suppose  I  take  a  spurt,  and  mix 
Amang  the  wilds  o'  Politics  — 
Electors  and  elected  — 


ELECTION    BALLAD 


163 


Where  dogs  at  Court  (sad  sons  o'  bitches  !) 
Septennially  a  madness  touches, 
Till  all  the  laud  's  infected  ? 

VI 

All  hail,  Drumlanrig's  haughty  Grace, 
Discarded  remnant  of  a  race 

Once  godlike  —  great  in  story  ! 
Thy  fathers'  virtues  all  contrasted, 
The  very  name  of  Douglas  blasted, 

Thine  that  inverted  glory  ! 


Hate,  envy,  oft  the  Douglas  bore; 
But  thou  hast  superadded  more, 

And  sunk  them  in  contempt  ! 
Follies  and  crimes  have  stain'd  the  name; 
But,  Queensberry,  thine  the  virgin  claim, 

From  aught  that 's  good  exempt! 


I  '11  sing  the  zeal  Drumlanrig  bears. 
Who  left  the  all-important  cares 

Of  fiddlers,  whores,  and  hunters, 
And,  bent  on  buying  Borough  Towns, 
Came  shaking  hands  wi'  wabster-loons. 

And  kissing  barefit  hunters. 


Combustion  thro'  our  boroughs  rode, 
Whistling  his  roaring  pack  abroad 

Of  mad  unmuzzled  lions, 
As  Queensberry  buff-and-blue  unfurl'd. 
And  Westerha'  and  Hopeton  hurl'd 

To  every  Whig  defiance. 


But  cautious  Queensberry  left  the  war 
(Th'  unraanner'd  dust  might  soil  his  star; 

Besides,  he  hated  bleeding), 
But  left  behind  him  heroes  bright. 
Heroes  in  Csesarean  fight 

Or  Ciceronian  pleading. 

XI 

O,  for  a  throat  like  huge  Monp-Meg, 
To  muster  o'er  each  ardent  Whig 

Beneath  Drumlanrig's  banner  ! 
Heroes  and  heroines  commix, 
All  in  the  field  of  politics, 

To  win  immortal  honor  ! 

XII 

M'Murdo  and  his  lovely  sponse 

(Th'  enamour'd  laurels  kiss  her  brows  !) 


Led  on  the  Loves  and  Graces: 
She  won  each  gaping  burgess'  heart. 
While  he,  sub  rosd,  played  his  part 

Among  their  wives  and  lasses. 


Craigdarroch  led  a  light-arm'd  core: 
Tropes,  metaphors,  and  figures  pour, 

Like  Hecla  streaming  thunder. 
Glenriddell,  skill'd  in  rusty  coins, 
Blew  up  each  Tory's  dark  designs 

And  bared  the  treason  under. 


In  either  wing  two  champions  fought: 
Redoubted  Staig,  who  set  at  nought 

The  wildest  savage  Tory  ; 
And    Welsh,    who   ne'er    yet    flinch'd   his 

ground, 
High-wav'd  his  magnum-bonum  round 

With  Cyclopeian  fury. 

XV 

jNIiller  brought  up  th'  artillery  ranks, 
The  many-pounders  of  the  Banks, 

Resistless  desolation  ! 
While  Maxwelton,  that  baron  bold, 
'Mid  Lawson's  port  entrench'd  his  hold 

And  threaten'd  worse  damnation. 

XVI 

To  these  what  Tory  hosts  oppos'd. 
With  these  what  Tory  warriors  clos'd. 

Surpasses  my  descriving  : 
Squadrons,  extended  long  and  large, 
A^'ith  furious  speed  rush  to  the  charge, 

Like  furious  devils  driving. 


What  verse  can  sing,  what  prose  narrate 
The  butcher  deeds  of  bloody  Fate 

Amid  this  mighty  tulyie  ? 
Grim  Horror  girn'd,  pale  Terror  roar'd. 
As  Murther  at  his  thrapple  shor'd. 

And  Hell  mix'd  in  the  brulyie. 

XVIII 

As  Highland  craigs  by  thunder  cleft, 
When  lightnings  fire  the  stormy  lift, 

Hurl  down  with  crashing  rattle, 
As  flames  among  a  hundred  woods. 
As  headlong  foam  a  hundred  floods  — 

Such  is  the  ra^e  of  Battle  ! 


164 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


The  stubborn  Tories  dare  to  die  : 
As  soon  the  rooted  oaks  would  fly 

Before  th'  approaching  fellers  ! 
The  Whigs  come  on  like  Ocean's  roar, 
When  all  his  wintry  billows  pour 

Agaiust  the  Buchan  BuUers. 


Lo,  from  the  shades  of  Death's  deep  night 
Departed  W^higs  enjoy  the  fight, 

And  think  on  former  daring  ! 
The  muffled  murtherer  of  Charles 
The  Magna  Charter  flag  unfurls, 

All  deadly  gules  its  bearing. 


Nor  wanting  ghosts  of  Tory  fame  : 
Bold  Serimgeour  follows  gallant  Graham, 

Auld  Covenanters  shiver  .  .  . 
Forgive  !    forgive  !     much-wrong'd    Mon- 
trose ! 
Now  Death  and  Hell  engulph  thy  foes. 

Thou  liv'st  on  high  for  ever  ! 

XXII 

Still  o'er  the  field  the  combat  burns; 
The  Tories,  Whigs,  give  way  by  turns; 

But  Fate  the  word  has  spoken; 
For  woman's  wit  and  strength  o'  man, 
Alas  !  can  do  but  what  they  can  : 

The  Tory  ranks  are  broken. 


O,  that  my  een  were  flowing  burns  ! 
My  voice  a  lioness  that  mourns 

Her  darling  cubs'  undoing 
That  I  might  greet,  that  I  might  cry, 
While  Tories  fall,  while  Tories  fly 

From  furious  Whigs  pursuing  ! 

XXIV 

Wtat  Whig  but  melts  for  good  Sir  James, 
Dear  to  his  country  by  the  names, 

Friend,  Patron,  Benefactor  ? 
Not  Pulteney's  wealth  can  Pulteney  save ; 
And      Hopeton      falls  —  the       generous, 
brave  !  — 

And  Stewart  bold  as  Hector. 


Thou,  Pitt,  shalt  rue  this  overthrow. 
And  Thurlow  growl  this  curse  of  woe, 
And  Melville  melt  in  wailing  ! 


Now  Fox  and  Sheridan  rejoice. 
And  Burke  shall  sing:  —  "  O  Prince,  arise  1 
Thy  power  is  all  prevailing  !  " 


For  your  poor  friend,  the  Bard,  afar 
He  sees  and  hears  the  distant  war, 

A  cool  spectator  purely: 
So,  when  the  storm  the  forest  rends, 
The  robin  in  the  hedge  descends, 

And,  patient,  chirps  securely. 


Now,  for  my  friends'  and  brethren's  sakes. 
And  for  my  dear-lov'd  Land  o'  Cakes, 

I  pray  with  holy  fire :  — 
Lord,  send  a  rough-shod  troop  o'  Hell 
O'er  a'  wad  Scotland  buy  or  sell, 

To  grind  them  in  the  mire  ! 


BALLADS   ON    MR.    HERON'S 
ELECTION,   1795 

BALLAD    FIRST 

In  this  Election  for  the  Stewartry  of  Kirk- 
cudbright, Heron  of  Kerroughtrie,  the  Whig 
candidate,  was  opposed  by  Thomas  Gordon  of 
Balmaghie.  Bums,  who  had  visited  Heron  in 
June,  1794,  warmly  supported  him,  not  merely 
for  friendship's  sake  but  out  of  a  special  dis- 
like to  the  more  conspicuous  among  Balmagh- 
ie's  supporters.  This  ballad  and  the  next  he 
enclosed  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Heron,  stating  that 
he  had  distributed  them  ' '  among  friends  all 
over  the  country." 


Wham  will  we  send  to  London  town, 

To  Parliament  and  a'  that  ? 
Or  wha  in  a'  the  country  round 
The  best  deserves  to  fa'  that  ? 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
Thro'  Galloway  and  a'  that. 
Where  is  the  Laird  or  belted  Knight 
That  best  deserves  to  fa'  that  ? 


Wha  sees  Kerroughtree's  open  yett  - 
And  wha  is  't  never  saw  that  ?  — 
Wha  ever  wi'  Kerroughtree  met. 
And  has  a  doubt  of  a'  that  ? 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
Here  's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that ! 


BALLADS   ON    MR.    HERON'S    ELECTION 


165 


The  independent  patriot, 

The  honest  man,  and  a'  that ! 


Tho'  wit  and  worth,  in  either  sex. 
Saint  Mary's  Isle  can  shaw  that, 
Wi'  Lords  and  Dukes  let  Selkirk  mix. 
And  weel  does  Selkirk  fa'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
Here  's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that  ! 
An  independent  commoner 
Shall  be  the  man  for  a'  that. 


But  why  should  we  to  Nobles  jeuk, 

And  it  against  the  law,  that, 
And  even  a  Lord  may  be  a  gowk, 
Wi'  ribban,  star,  and  a'  that  ? 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
Here  's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that ! 
A  Lord  may  be  a  lousy  loon, 
Wi'  ribban,  star,  and  a'  that. 


A  beardless  boy  comes  o'er  the  hills 

Wi 's  uncle's  purse  and  a'  that ; 
But  we  '11  hae  ane  frae  'mang  oursels, 
A  man  we  ken,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
Here  's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that ! 
We  are  na  to  be  bought  and  sold. 
Like  nowte,  and  naigs,  and  a'  that. 

VI 

Then  let  us  drink:  —  "  The  Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's  laird,  and  a'  that. 
Our  representative  to  be :  " 
For  weel  he 's  worthy  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
Here  's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that  ! 
A  House  of  Commons  such  as  he. 
They  wad  be  blest  that  saw  that. 


BALLAD   SECOND:   THE  ELEC- 
TION 

Tune  :  Fy,  Let  Us  A  to  The  Bridal 

A  parody  of  The  Blythsome  Wedding,  the 
classic,  in  Watson's  First  Part  (1706),  attrib- 
uted to  Francis  Semple  :  — 

"  Fy,  let  UB  All  to  the  BriddeL, 
For  there  will  be  Lilting  there, 


For  Jockie  's  to  be  marry'd  to  Maggie, 
The  Lass  with  the  Gauden  Hair  : 

And  there  will  be  Lang-kail  and  Pottage, 
And  Bannocks  of  Barley-Meal ; 

And  there  will  be  good  Salt-herring 
To  relish  a  kog  of  good  Ale." 

I 

Fy,  let  us  a'  to  Kirkcudbright, 

For  there  will  be  bickerin  there; 
For  Murray's  light  horse  are  to  muster, 

An'  O,  how  the  heroes  will  swear  ! 
And  there  will  be  Murray  commander. 

An'  Gordon  the  battle  to  win: 
Like  brothers,  they  '11  stan'  by  each  other, 

Sae  knit  in  alliance  and  kin. 


An'  there  '11  be  black-nebbit  Johnie, 

The  tongue  o'  the  trump  to  them  a': 
Gin  he  get  na  Hell  for  his  haddin. 

The  Deil  gets  nae  justice  ava  ! 
And  there  '11  be  Kempleton's  birkie, 

A  boy  no  sae  black  at  the  bane; 
But  as  to  his  fine  nabob  fortune  — 

We  '11  e'en  let  the  subject  alane  ! 


An'  there  '11  be  Wigton's  new  sheriff  — 

Dame  Justice  fu'  brawly  has  sped: 
She  's  gotten  the  heart  of  a  Bushby, 

But  Lord  !  what 's  become  o'  the  head  ? 
An'  there  '11  be  Cardoness,  Esquire, 

Sae  mighty  in  Cardoness'  eyes: 
A  wight  that  will  weather  damnation, 

For  the  Devil  the  prey  would  despise. 


An'  there  '11  be  Douglasses  doughty. 

New  christening  towns  far  and  near: 
Abjuring  their  democrat  doings 

An'  kissing  the  arse  of  a  peer  ! 
An'  there  '11  be  Kenmure  sae  generous, 

Wha's  honor  is  proof  to  the  storm : 
To  save  them  from  stark  reprobation 

He  lent  them  his  name  to  the  firm  ! 


But  we  winna  mention  Redcastle, 

The  body  —  e'en  let  him  escape  ! 
He  'd  venture  the  gallows  for  siller. 

An'  't  were  na  the  cost  o'  the  rape  ! 
An'  whare  is  our  King's  Lord  Lieutenant, 

Sae  famed  for  his  gratefu'  return  ? 
The  billie  is  getting  his  Questions 

To  say  at  St.  Stephen's  the  morn  ! 


t66 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


VI 

An'  there  '11  be  lads  o'  the  gospel : 

Muirhead,  wha  's  as  guid  as  he  's  true; 
An'  there  '11  be  Buittle's  Apostle, 

Wha  's  mair  o'  the  black  than  the  blue; 
An'  there  '11  be  folk  f rae  St.  Mary's, 

A  house  o'  great  merit  and  note: 
The  Deil  ane  but  honors  them  highly, 

The  Deil  ane  will  gie  them  his  vote  ! 


An'  there  '11  be  wealthy  young  Richard, 

Dame  Fortune  should  hang  by  the  neck: 
But  for  prodigal  thriftless  bestowing. 

His  merit  had  won  him  respect. 
An'  there  '11  be  rich  brither  nabobs; 

Tho'  nabobs,  yet  men  o'  the  first  ! 
An'  there  '11  be  CoUieston's  whiskers. 

An'  Quinton  —  o'  lads  no  the  warst ! 

VIII 

An'  there  '11  be  Stamp-Office  Johnie: 

Tak  tent  how  ye  purchase  a  dram  ! 
An'  there  '11  be  gay  Cassencarry, 

An'  there'll  be  Colonel  Tam; 
An'  there  '11  be  trusty  Kerroughtree, 

Wha's  honour  was  ever  his  law: 
If  the  virtues  were  pack't  in  a  parcel, 

His  worth  might  be  sample  for  a' ! 


An'  can  we  forget  the  auld  Major, 

Wha  '11  ne'er  be  forgot  in  the  Greys  ? 
Our  flatt'ry  we  '11  keep  for  some  other: 

Him  only  it 's  justice  to  praise  I 
An'  there  'II  be  maiden  Kilkerran, 

An'  also  Barskimming's  guid  Knight. 
An'  there  '11  be  roaring  Birtwhistle  — 

Yet  luckily  roars  in  the  right ! 


An'  there  frae  the  Niddlesdale  border 

Will  mingle  the  Maxwells  in  droves: 
Teuch  Johnie,  Statmch  Geordie,  and  Wattie 

That  girns  for  the  fishes  an'  loaves  ! 
An'  there  '11  be  Logan's  M'Doual  — 

Sculdudd'ry  an'  he  will  be  there  ! 
An'  also  the  wild  Scot  o'  Galloway, 

Sogering,  gunpowther  BlaLr ! 


Then  hey  the  chaste  interest  of  Broughton, 
An'  hey  for  the  blessings  't  will  bring  ! 

It  may  send  Balmaghie  to  the  Commons  — 
In  Sodom  't  would  mak  him  a  King  I 


An'  hey  for  the  sanctified  Murray 
Our  laud  wha  wi'  chapels  has  stor'd; 

He  fouuder'd  his  horse  among  harlots. 
But  gie'd  the  auld  naig  to  the  Lord  I 


BALLAD   THIRD: 
JOHN  BUSHBYS    LAMENTATION 

Tune  :  Babes  In  the  Wood 

For  John  Bushby,  see  post,  p.  198,  Prefatory 
Note  to  Epitaj)h  on  John  Bushby. 


'T  WAS  in  the  Seventeen  Hunder  year 
O'  grace,  and  Ninety-Five, 

That  year  I  was  the  wae'est  man 
Of  ouie  man  alive. 


In  March  the  three-an'-twentieth  morn, 
The  sun  raise  clear  an'  bright; 

But  O,  I  was  a  waefu'  man. 
Ere  to-fa'  o'  the  night ! 

Ill 
Yerl  Galloway  lang  did  rule  this  land 

Wi'  equal  right  and  fame. 
Fast  knit  in  chaste  and  holy  bands 

With  Broughtou's  noble  uame. 


Yerl  Galloway's  man  o'  men  was  I, 
And  chief  o'  Broughton's  host : 

So  twa  blind  beggars,  on  a  string, 
The  faithf u'  tyke  will  trust ! 


But  now  Yerl  Galloway's  sceptre  's  broke, 
And  Broughton  's  wi'  the  slain. 

And  I  my  ancient  craft  may  try. 
Sin'  honesty  is  gane. 

VI 
'T  was  by  the  banks  o'  bonie  Dee, 

Beside  Kirkcudbright's  towers. 
The  Stewart  and  the  Murray  there 

Did  muster  a'  their  powers. 

VII 
Then  Murray  on  the  anld  grey  yaud 
Wi'  winged  spurs  did  ride  : 


THE  TROGGER                                            167 

That  auld  grey  yaud  a'  Nidsdale  rade, 

Save  on  a  wand'rer  lame  and  blind. 

He  staw  upon  Nidside. 

To  drive  him  frae  his  door. 

VIII 

XVII 

An'  there  had  na  been  the  Yerl  himsel, 

And  last  cam  creepin  CoUieston, 

0,  there  had  been  uae  play  ! 

Was  mair  in  fear  than  wrath; 

But  Garlies  was  to  London  gane, 

Ae  knave  was  constant  in  his  mind  — 

And  sae  the  kye  might  stray. 

To  keep  that  knave  frae  scaith. 

IX 

And  there  was  Balmaghie,  I  ween  — 

In  front  rank  he  wad  shine; 

But  Balmaghie  had  better  been 

Drinkin'  Madeira  wine. 

THE   TROGGER 

X 

Tune:  Buy  Br 00711  Besoms 

And  frae  Glenkens  cam  to  our  aid 

A  chief  0'  doughty  deed: 

Written  for  Heron's  election  for  Kirkcud- 

In case  that  worth  should  wanted  be, 

bright    in    '96.     [See  ante,  p.    164,   Prefatory 

0'  Kenmure  we  had  need. 

Note  to  First  Heron  Election  Ballad.^     Burns 

died  before  the    result  was   known.     On  this 

XI 

occasion  Heron  was  opposed  by  the  Hon.  Mont- 

And by  our  banners  march'd  Muirhead, 
And  Buittle  was  na  slack, 

gomery  Stewart,  son  of  the  Earl  of  Galloway. 

A  trogger  is  a  travelling  hawker  or  packman. 

Whase  haly  priesthood  nane  could  stain, 

For  wha  could  dye  the  black  ? 

CHORUS 

XII 

Buy  braw  troggin 

Frae  the  banks  0'  Dee  1 

And  there  was  grave  Squire  Cardoness, 

Wha  wants  troggin 

Look'd  on  till  a'  was  done: ' 

Let  him  come  to  me  ! 

Sae  in  the  tower  0'  Cardoness 

A  howlet  sits  at  noon. 

I 

XIII 

Wha  will  buy  my  troggin. 

Fine  election  ware, 

And  there  led  I  the  Bushby  clan: 

Broken  trade  0'  Broughton, 

My  gamesome  billie,  Will, 

A'  in  high  repair  ? 

And  my  son  Maitland,  wise  as  brave, 

My  footsteps  follow'd  still. 

II 

XIV 

There  's  a  noble  Earl's 

Fame  and  biffh  renown. 

The  Douglas  and  the  Heron's  name. 

0              • ... 
For  an  auld  sang  —  it 's  thought 

We  set  nought  to  their  score; 

The  guids  were  stown. 

The  Douglas  and  the  Heron's  name 

Had  felt  our  weight  before. 

Ill 

XV 

Here  's  the  worth  0'  Broughton 

In  a  needle's  e'e. 

But  Douglasses  0'  weight  had  we: 

Here  's  a  reputation 

The  pair  0'  lusty  lairds, 

Tint  by  Balmaghie. 

For  building  cot-houses  sae  fam'd, 

And  christenin  kail-yards. 

IV 

Here  's  its  stuff  and  lining, 

XVI 

Cardoness's  head  — 

And  then  Redcastle  drew  his  sword 

Fine  for  a  soger, 

That  ne'er  was  stain'd  wi'  gore 

A'  the  wale  0'  lead. 

i68 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Here  's  a  little  wadset  — 
Buittle's  scrap  o'  truth, 

Pawn'd  in  a  gin-shop, 
Quenching  holy  drouth. 


Here  's  an  honest  conscience 
Might  a  prince  adorn, 

Frae  the  downs  o'  Tiuwald  — 
So  was  never  worn  ! 

VII 

Here  's  armorial  bearings 
Frae  the  manse  o'  Urr: 

The  crest,  a  sour  crab-apple 
Kotten  at  the  core. 

VIII 

Here  is  Satan's  picture, 

Like  a  bizzard  gled 
Pouncing  poor  Redcastle, 

Sprawlin  like  a  taed. 

IX 

Here  's  the  font  where  Douglas 
Stane  and  mortar  names. 

Lately  used  at  Caily 

Christening  Murray's  crimes. 


Here 's  the  worth  and  wisdom 
Collieston  can  boast: 

By  a  thievish  midge 

They  had  been  nearly  lost. 

XI 

Here  is  Murray's  fragments 
O'  the  Ten  Commands, 

Gifted  by  Black  Jock 

To  get  them  aff  his  hands. 


Saw  ye  e'er  sic  troggin  ?  — 
If  to  buy  ye  're  slack, 

Homie  's  turnin  chapman: 
He  '11  buy  a'  the  pack ! 

CHORUS 

Buy  braw  troggin 

Frae  the  banks  o'  Dee 

Wha  wants  troggin 
Let  him  come  to  me  ! 


THE    DEAN    OF   THE   FACULTY 

A   NEW   BALLAD 
Tune  :   The  Dragon  of  Wantley 

Bums  charged  the  squib  on  learning  that 
Robert  Dundas  of  Arniston  —  against  whom 
he  had  a  grudge  —  (see  post,  p.  174,  Prefatory 
Note  to  On  the  Death  of  Lord  President  Bun- 
das)  —  had,  on  12th  January,  1796,  been  elected 
Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates  by  a  large 
majority  over  Henry  Erskine.  Dundas,  the 
son  of  the  Lord  President,  was  bom  6th  June, 
1758  ;  appointed  Lord  Advocate  in  1789  ;  from 
1790  to  1796  sat  for  Edinburgh ;  in  1801  was 
made  Baron  of  the  Exchequer ;  and  died  17th 
June,  1819.  For  Erskine,  see  post,  p.  183,  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  In  the  Court  of  Session. 


Dire  was  the  hate  at  Old  Harlaw 

That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry  ; 
And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw 

For  beauteous,  hapless  Mary. 
But  Scot  to  Scot  ne'er  met  so  hot, 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen,  Sir, 
Than  'twixt  Hal  and  Bob  for  the  famous 
job. 

Who  should  be  the  Faculty's  Dean,  Sir. 

II 

This  Hal  for  genius,  wit,  and  lore 

Among  the  first  was  number'd  ; 
But  pious  Bob,  'mid  learning's  store 

Commandment  the  Tenth  remember'd. 
Yet  simple  Bob  the  victory  got. 

And  won  his  heart's  desire  : 
Which  shows  that  Heaven  can  boil  the  pot, 

Tho'  the  Deil  piss  in  the  fire. 


Squire  Hal,  besides,  had  in  this  case 

Pretensions  rather  brassy  ; 
For  talents,  to  deserve  a  place, 

Are  qualifications  saucy. 
So  their  worships  of  the  Faculty, 

Quite  sick  of  Merit's  rudeness. 
Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d'ye  see, 

To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. 


As  once  on  Pisgah  purg'd  was  the  sight 
Of  a  son  of  Circumcision, 


THE  RONALDS  OF  THE  BENNALS 


169 


So,  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height 
Bob's  purblind  mental  vision. 

Nay,  Bobby's  mouth  may  be  open'd  yet, 
Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him. 

And  swear  that  he  has  the  Angel  met 
That  met  the  Ass  of  Balaam. 


In  your  heretic  sins  may  ye  live  and  die, 
Ye  heretic  Eight-and-Thirty  ! 

But  accept,  ye  sublime  majority, 
^,  My  congratulations  hearty  ! 

With  your  honors,  as  with  a  certain  King, 
In  your  servants  this  is  striking, 

The  more  incapacity  they  bring 
The  more  they  're  to  your  liking. 


MISCELLANIES 

THE   TARBOLTON    LASSES 

I 

If  ye  gae  up  to  yon  hill-tap. 
Ye  'II  there  see  bonie  Peggy : 

She  kens  her  father  is  a  laird, 
And  she  forsooth  's  a  leddy. 

II 

There  's  Sophy  tight,  a  lassie  bright. 
Besides  a  handsome  fortune: 

Wha  canna  win  her  in  a  night 
Has  little  art  in  courtin. 

Ill 

Gae  down  by  Faile,  and  taste  the  ale, 

And  tak  a  look  o'  Mysie: 
She  's  dour  and  din,  a  deil  within, 

But  aiblins  she  may  please  ye. 

IV 

If  she  be  shy,  her  sister  try, 
Ye  '11  may  be  fancy  Jenny: 

If  ye  '11  dispense  wi'  want  o'  sense, 
She  kens  hersel  she  's  bonie. 


As  ye  gae  up  by  yon  hillside, 

Spier  in  for  bonie  Bessy: 
She  '11  gie  ye  a  beck,  and  bid  ye  light, 

And  handsomely  address  ye. 

VI 

There  's  few  sae  bonie,  nane  sae  guid 
In  a'  King  George'  dominion: 


If  ye  should  doubt  the  truth  of  this, 
It 's  Bessy's  ain  opinion. 


THE  RONALDS  OF  THE  BEN- 
NALS 

The  Bennals  was  a  farm  in  Tarbolton  parish. 
Miss  Jean  refused  Gilbert  Burns.  The  father, 
supposed  to  have  "  Braid  money  to  tocher  them 
a',  man,"  went  bankrupt  in  1789,  when  Robert 
wrote  to  his  brother  William :  "  You  will 
easily  guess  that  from  his  insolent  vanity  in  his 
sunshine  of  life,  he  will  now  feel  a  little  retalia- 
tion from  those  who  thought  themselves  eclipsed 
by  him." 

I 

In   Tarbolton,  ye    ken,  there   are   proper 

young  men. 

And  proper  young  lasses  and  a',  man: 

But  ken  ye  the  Ronalds  that  live  in   the 

Bennals  ? 

They  carry  the  gree  frae  them  a',  man. 


Their   father's  a  laird,  and  weel   he   can 
spare  't: 
Braid  money  to  tocher  them  a',  man; 
To  proper  young  men,  he  '11  clink  in  the 
hand 
Gowd  guineas  a  hunder  or  twa,  man. 


There 's   ane    they  ca'  Jean,  I  '11  warrant 
ye  've  seen 
As  bonie  a  lass  or  as  braw,  man; 
But  for  sense  and  guid  taste  she  '11  vie  wi' 
the  best, 
And  a  conduct  that  beautifies  a',  man. 

IV 

The  charms  o'  the  min',  the  langer   they 

shine 

The  mair  admiration  they  draw,  man; 

While  peaches  and  cherries,  and  roses  and 

lilies. 

They  fade  and  they  wither  awa,  man. 


If  ye  be   for  Miss  Jean,  tak  this  frae  a 
frien', 
A  hint  o'  a  rival  or  twa,  man: 
The  Laird  o'  Blackbyre  wad  gang  through 
the  fire. 
If  that  wad  entice  her  awa,  man. 


170 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


The  Laird  o'  Braehead  has    been    on    his 
speed 
For  niair  than  a  towmond  or  twa,  man: 
The  Laird  o'  the  Ford  will  straught  on  a 
board, 
If  he  canna  get  her  at  a',  man. 


Then  Anna  comes  in,  the  pride  o'  her  kin, 
The  boast  of  our  bachelors  a',  man: 

Sae  sonsy  and  sweet,  sae  fully  complete, 
She  steals  our  affections  awa,  man. 


If  I  should  detail  the  pick  and  the  wale 
O'  lasses  that  live  here  awa,  man. 

The  faut  wad  be  mine,  if  they  didua  shine 
The  sweetest  and  best  o'  them  a',  man. 


I  lo'e  her  mysel,  but  darena  weel  tell. 
My  poverty  keeps  me  in  awe,  man; 

For   making   o'   rhymes,  and   working   at 
times, 
Does  little  or  naething  at  a',  man. 


Yet  I  wadna  choose  to  let  her  refuse 
Nor  hae  't  in  her  power  to  say  na,  man: 

For  though  I  be  poor,  unnoticed,  obscure, 
My  stomach  's  as  proud  as  them  a',  man. 


Though  I  canna  ride  in  well-booted  pride. 
And  flee  o'er  the  hills  like  a  craw,  man, 

I  can  hand  up  my  head  wi'  the  best  o'  the 
breed. 
Though  fluttering  ever  so  braw,  man. 


My  coat  and  my  vest,  they  are  Scotch  o' 
the  best; 
O'  pairs  o'  guid  breeks  I  hae  twa,  man, 
And  stockings  and  pumps  to  put   on   my 
stumps. 
And  ne'er   a  wrang  steek   in    them    a', 
man. 


My  sarks  they  are  few,  but  five  o'  them 
new  — 
Twal'   hundred,  as  white  as   the   snaw, 
man  ! 


A  ten-shillings  hat,  a  Holland  cravat  — 
There   are   no   monie    Poets   sae   braw, 
man  ! 


I  never  had  frien's  weel  stockit  in  means, 
To  leave  me  a  hundred  or  twa,  man; 

Nae  weel-tocher'd  aunts,  to  wait  on  their 
drants 
And  wish  them  in  hell  for  it  a',  man. 


I  never  was  cannie  for  hoarding  o'  money. 
Or  claughtin  't  together  at  a',  man ; 

I  've  little  to  spend  and  naething  to  lend, 
But  devil  a  shilling  I  awe,  man. 


I'LL   GO   AND    BE   A   SODGER 

Inspired,  it  may  be,  by  the  destruction  of 
the  shop  at  Irvine,  when  the  writer  was  "  left, 
like  a  true  poet,  not  worth  sixpence." 


O,  WHY  the  deuce  should  I  repine, 
And  be  an  ill  foreboder  ? 

I  'm  twenty-three  and  five  feet  nine, 
I  '11  go  and  be  a  sodger. 


I  gat  some  gear  wi'  meikle  care, 

I  held  it  weel  thegither; 
But  now  it's  gane  —  and  something  mair: 

I  '11  go  and  be  a  sodger. 


APOSTROPHE     TO     FERGUSSON 

INSCRIBED   ABOVE   AND    BELOW   HIS 
PORTRAIT 

The  copy  of  Fergusson  hearing  this  passion- 
ate but  Anglified  and  imitative  protest  was 
given  by  Bums,  while  in  Edinburgh  in  1787, 
to  a  young  woman,  herself  a  writer  of  verse : 
"  This  copy  of  Fergusson"s  Poems  is  presented 
as  a  mark  of  esteem,  friendship  and  regard  to 
Miss  R.  Carmichael,  poetess,  by 

Robert  Burns. 

"  EDnfEUEOH,  19th  March,  1787." 

A  volume  of  verse  by  Rebekah  Carmichael. 
printed  and  sold  by  Peter  Hill,  appeared  in 
1790  ;  and  in  1806,  under  the  name  of  Rebekab 


11 


INSCRIBED   ON    A   WORK   OF   HANNAH    MORE'S 


171 


Hay,  the  same  person  enclosed  a  printed  poem, 
On  Seeing  the  Funeral  of  Sir  William  Forbes, 
in  a  letter  (now  in  the  British  Museum)  pre- 
sumably to  some  of  Forbes's  relations,  in  which 
she  stated  that  she  "  was  weak  and  ill,"  and 
begged  for  assistance. 

Curse   on   ungrateful    man,   that   can  be 

pleas'd 
And  yet  can   starve   the    author  of    the 

pleasure  ! 

O  thou,  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune. 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  Muse, 
With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 
Why  is  the  Bard  unfitted  for  the  world, 
Yet  has  so  keen  a  relish  of  its  pleasures  ? 


THE     BELLES     OF     MAUCHLINE 

Miss  Miller  is  the  "Nell"  of  A  Mauchline 
Wedding  (see  ante,  p.  114)  ;  Miss  Markland 
married  Mr.  James  Findlay,  [an  exciseman, 
formerly  but  wrongly  supposed  to  be  the  hero 
of]  Wha  is  That  at  My  Bower  Door  (post,  p. 
236) ;  Miss  Smith,  the  witty  sister  of  the  witty 
James  Smith  (see  ante,  p.  15),  became  the  wife 
of  another  of  Burns's  especial  friends,  James 
Candlish,  and  the  mother  of  a  famous  Free 
Church  leader,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Candlish  of  Edin- 
burgh ;  Miss  Betty  was  the  "  Eliza  "  of  Burns's 
song  (see  ante,  p.  52)  and  the  "  Bess "  of  A 
Mauchline  Wedding  aforesaid ;  Mr.  Paterson,  a 
Mauchline  merchant,  got  Miss  Morton  ;  and  of 
the  other  Burns  noted  in  the  Glenriddell  Book  : 
''  Miss  Armour  is  now  known  by  the  designation 
of  Mrs.  Burns." 


In  Mauchline  there  dwells  six  proper  young 
belles, 

The  pride  of  the  place  and  its  neighbour- 
hood a', 

Their  carriage  and  dress,  a  stranger  would 
guess, 
^    In  Lon'on  or  Paris  they  'd  gotten  it  a'. 


Miss  Miller  is  fine,  Miss  Markland  's  di- 
vine, 

Miss  Smith  she  has  wit,  and  Miss  Betty  is 
braw. 

There 's  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  wi'  Miss 
Morton; 

But  Armour  's  the  jewel  for  me  o'  them  a'. 


AH,   WOE    IS     ME,    MY    MOTHER 
DEAR 

Jeremiah,  chap.  xv.  verse  10 


Ah,  woe  is  me,  my  Mother  dear 
A  man  of  strife  ye  've  born  me. 

For  sair  contention  I  maun  bear; 
They  hate,  revile,  and  scorn  me. 


I  ne'er  could  lend  on  bill  or  band. 
That  five  per  cent,  might  blest  me; 

And  borrowing,  on  the  tither  hand, 
The  deil  a  ane  wad  trust  me. 


Yet  I,  a  coin-deny^d  wight. 
By  Fortune  quite  discarded, 

Ye  see  how  I  am  day  and  night 
By  lad  and  lass  blackguarded  5 


INSCRIBED     ON     A     WORK     OF 
HANNAH    MORE'S 

PRESENTED  TO  THE  AUTHOR  BY  A  LADY 

"  I  received  your  kind  letter  with  double 
pleasure  on  account  of  the  second  flattering 
instance  of  Mrs.  C.'s  notice  and  approbation. 
I  assure  you  I 

'  Turn  out  the  brunt  side  o'  my  shin,' 

as  the  famous  Ramsay,  of  jingling  memory, 
says,  of  such  a  patroness.  Present  her  my 
most  grateful  acknowledgments  in  your  very 
best  manner  of  telling  the  truth.  I  have 
inscribed  the  following  stanza  on  the  blank 
leaf  of  Miss  More's  works."  (R.  B.  to  Robert 
Aiken,  3d  April,  1786.)  Mrs.  C.  is  not  identi- 
fied. Scott  Douglas  suggested  Mrs.  Cunuing- 
hame  of  Enterkine,  but  discovered  that  she  was 
not  married  until  1794.  He  then  bethought 
him  of  the  wife  of  Sir  William  Cunningham  of 
Robertland,  forgetting  that  she  had  a  handle 
to  her  name.  Mrs.  Cunninghame  of  Laiiishaw 
subscribed  for  two  copies  of  the  First  Edin- 
burgh. 

Thou  flatt'ring  mark  of  friendship  kind, 
Still  may  thy  pages  call  to  mind 
The  dear,  the  beauteous  donor  ! 


172 


POSTHUMOUS    PIECES 


Tho'  sweetly  female  ev'ry  part, 

Yet  such  a  head  and  —  more  —  the  heart 

Does  both  the  sexes  honor: 
She  shovv'd  her  taste  refiu'd  and  just, 

When  she  selected  thee, 
Yet  deviating,  own  I  must, 
For  so  approving  me: 

But,  kind  still,  I  mind  still 

The  giver  in  the  gift; 
I  '11  bless  her,  and  wiss  her 
A  Friend  aboou  the  lift. 


LINES    WRITTEN    ON    A     BANK 
NOTE 

Wae  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursed  leaf  ! 

Fell  source  of  a'  my  woe  and  grief. 

For  lack  o'  thee  I  've  lost  my  lass, 

For  lack  o'  thee  I  scrimp  my  glass  ! 

I  see  the  children  of  affliction 

Unaided,  through  thy  curs'd  restriction. 

I  've  seen  the  oppressor's  cruel  smile 

Amid  his  hapless  victims'  spoil; 

And  for  thy  potence  vainly  wish'd 

To  crush  the  villain  in  the  dust. 

For   lack    o'  thee  I  leave  this   much-lov'd 

shore. 
Never,  perhaps,  to  greet  old  Scotland  more. 

R.  B. 

Eyle. 


THE    FAREWELL 

The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  ? 

Or  what  does  he  regard  his  single  woes  ? 

But  when,  alas  !  he  multiplies  himself, 

To  dearer  selves,  to  the  lov'd  tender  fair, 

To  those  whose  hliss,  whose  beings  hang  upon  him. 

To  helpless  children,  —  then,  oh  then  lie  feels 

The  point  of  misery  festering  in  his  heart. 

And  weakly  weeps  his  fortunes  like  a  coward: 

Such,  such  am  I  !  —  undone  ! 

Thomson's  Edward  and  Eleanora. 

Published  in  Hamilton  Paul  (1819).  The 
piece  may  contain  the  germ  of  The  Gloom;/ 
Night  is  Gathering  Fast;  but  it  is  so  conven- 
tional and  commonplace  withal  that  one  is 
tempted  to  doxibt  its  genuineness,  despite  the 
fact  that  Paul's  authority  is  of  some  account. 


Farew^ell,  old  Scotia's  bleak  domains. 
Far  dearer  than  the  torrid  plains. 

Where  rich  ananas  blow  ! 
Farewell,  a  mother's  blessing  dear, 


A  brother's  sigh,  a  sister's  tear. 

My  Jean's  heart-rending  throe  ! 
Farewell,  my  Bess  !     Tho'  thou  'rt  bereft 

Of  my  paternal  care, 
A  faithful  brother  1  have  left, 
My  part  in  him  thou  'It  share  ! 
Adieu  too,  to  you  too. 

My  Smith,  my  bosom  frien'; 
When  kindly  you  mind  me, 
O,  then  befriend  my  Jean  ! 


What  bursting  anguish  tears  my  heart  ? 
From  thee,  my  Jeany,  must  I  part  ? 
Thou,  weeping,  answ'rest:  "No  !  " 
Alas  !  misfortune  stares  my  face. 
And  points  to  ruin  and  disgrace  — 

I  for  thy  sake  must  go  ! 
Thee,  Hamilton,  and  Aiken  dear, 

A  grateful,  warm  adieu: 
I  with  a  much-indebted  tear 
Shall  still  remember  you  ! 
All-hail,  then,  the  gale  then 

Wafts  me  from  thee,  dear  shore  ! 
It  rustles,  and  whistles  — 
1  '11  never  see  thee  more  ! 


ELEGY   ON   THE   DEATH    OF 
ROBERT   RUISSEAUX 

' '  Ruisseaux  "  —  French  for  "  brooks  "  (t.  c. 
"  burns  ")  —  is  an  innocent  play  on  the  writer's 
name. 


Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair. 

He  '11  gabble  rhyme,  nor  sing  nae  mair; 

Cauld  Poverty  wi'  hungry  stare 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him ; 
Nor  anxious  Fear,  nor  cankert  Care, 

E'er  mair  come  near  him. 


To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fash'd  him, 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crush'd  him ; 
For  sune  as  Chance  or  Fate  had  hush'd  'em, 

Tho'  e'er  sae  short. 
Then  wi'  a  rhyme  or  sang  he  lash'd  'em, 

And  thought  it  sport. 


Tho'  he  was  bred  to  kintra-wark. 

And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark, 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR     173 


Yet  that  was  never  Robin's  mark 

To  mak  a  man; 
But  tell  him,  he  was  learned  and  dark, 

Ye  roos'd  him  then  ! 


VERSES  INTENDED  TO  BE  WRIT- 
TEN BELOW  A  NOBLE  EARL'S 
PICTURE 

A  special  compliment  (and  a  gross)  to  the 
writer's  patron,  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  (see  ante, 
p.  87,  Prefatory  Note  to  Lament  for  James 
Earl  of  Glencairn) ,  who  declined,  being'  a  per- 
son of  taste,  to  have  it  included  in  Edition 
'87. 


Whose  is  that  noble,  dauntless  brow  ? 

And  whose  that  eye  of  fire  ? 
And  whose  that  generous  princely  mien, 

Ev'n  rooted  foes  admire  ? 


Stranger  !  to  justly  show  that  brow 

And  mark  that  eye  of  fire, 
Would  take  His  hand,  whose  vernal  tints 

His  other  works  admire  ! 

Ill 

Bright  as  a  cloudless  summer  sun. 

With  stately  port  he  moves; 
His  guardian  Seraph  eyes  with  awe 

The  noble  Ward  he  loves. 

IV 

Among  the  illustrious  Scottish  sons 
That  Chief  thou  may'st  discern: 

Mark  Scotia's  fond-returning  eye  — 
It  dwells  upon  Glencairn. 


ELEGY  ON  THE   DEATH  OF    SIR 
JAMES    HUNTER    BLAIR 

Sir  James  Hunter  Blair,  son  of  John  Hunter, 
bailie  in  Ayr,  was  born  2d  February,  1741  ; 
was  apprenticed  in  the  banking  house  of  the 
brothers  Coutts,  Edinburgh  ;  became,  with  Sir 
William  Forbes,  joint  partner  in  the  bank  ;  as- 
sumed the  name  of  Blair  when  his  wife  —  a 
daughter  of  John  Blair  of  Dunskey,  Wigton- 
shire  —  succeeded  to  her  estates  in  1777 ; 
greatly  improved  the  estates  in  agriculture  and 


trade ;  partly  rebuilt  Portpatrick,  and  started 
a  packet  service  to  Ireland  ;  was  also  an  active 
citizen  of  Edinburgh,  for  which  he  was  chosen 
M.  P.  in  1781  and  1784,  and  in  1784  Lord  Pro- 
vost ;  was  created  a  baronet,  1786  ;  and  died  of 
putrid  fever  1st  July,  1787. 

To  Robert  Aiken,  Bums  wrote  :  "  The  mel- 
ancholy occasion  of  the  foregoing  poem  affects 
not  only  individuals  but  a  country.  That  I 
have  lost  a  friend  is  but  repeating  after  Cale- 
donia." Further,  in  the  Glenriddell  Book  he 
thus  prefaces  his  Elegy  :  "  This  performance  is 
but  mediocre,  but  my  grief  was  sincere.  The 
last  time  I  saw  the  worthy,  public-spirited  man 
—  a  man  he  was  !  how  few  of  the  two-legged 
breed  that  pass  for  such  deserve  the  designa- 
tion !  —  he  pressed  my  hand,  and  asked  me 
with  the  most  friendly  warmth  if  it  was  in  his 
power  to  serve  me  ;  and  if  so,  that  I  would 
oblige  him  by  telling  him  how.  I  had  nothing 
to  ask  of  him ;  but  if  ever  a  child  of  his  should 
be  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  under  the  necessity 
of  asking  anything  of  so  poor  a  man  as  I  am  it 
mav  not  be  in  my  power  to  grant  it,  but  by 
God  I  shall  try." 


The  lamp  of  day  with  ill-presaging  glare, 
Dim,  cloudy,  sank  beneath  the  western 
wave ; 
Th'  inconstant  blast  howl'd  thro'  the  dark- 
ening air, 
And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rockv  cave. 


Lone  as  I  wander'd  by  each  cliff  and  dell. 
Once  the  lov'd  haunts  of  Scotia's  royal 
train; 
Or  mus'd  where  limpid  streams,  once  hal- 
low'd,  well. 
Or   mould'ring   ruins   mark   the   sacred 
Fane. 


Th'  increasing  blast  roared  round  the  bee- 
tling rocks, 
The  clouds,  swift-wing'd,  flew   o'er  the 
starry  sky. 
The    groaning   trees   untimely   shed    their 
locks. 
And  shooting  meteors  caught  the  startled 
eye. 


The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  li\'id  east. 

And  'moug  the  cliffs  disclos'd  a  stately 
form 


174 


POSTHUMOUS    PIECES 


In   weeds  of  woe,  that  frantic  beat   her 
breast, 
And  rnix'd  her  wailings  with  the  raving 
storm. 


Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow: 
'T  was    Caledonia's    trophied    shield   I 
view'd, 
Her  form  majestic  droop'd  in  pensive  woe, 
The   lightning  of  her  eye  in   tears   im- 
bued; 


Revers'd  that  spear  redoubtable  in  war. 
Reclined   that   banner,   erst   in  fields   mi- 

furl'd. 
That  like  a  deathful  meteor  gleam'd  afar. 
And  brav'd  the  mighty  monarchs  of  the 

world. 


"  My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave  !  " 
With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms,  she 
cried ; 
"  Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretch'd 
to  save, 
Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell'd  with  hon- 
or's pride. 

VIII 

"  A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow's  tear; 
The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan's 
cry; 
The  drooping  Arts  surround  their  patron's 
bier; 
And  gratefid  Science  heaves  the  heart- 
felt sigh. 

IX 

"  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire ; 
I   saw   fair   Freedom's   blossoms   richly 
blow. 
But  ah  !  how  hope  is  born  but  to  erpire  ! 
Relentless  fate  has  laid  their  guardian 
low. 


"  My  patriot  falls,  but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 
While  empty  greatness  saves  a  worthless 
name  ? 
No:   every    Muse   shall   join   her    tuneful 
tongue. 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 


"  And  I  will  join  a  mother's  tender  cares 
Thro'  future  times  to  make  his  virtues 
last, 
That   distant    years    may   boast   of   other 

Blairs!"—  : 

She  said,  and  vanish'd  with  the  sweeping     \ 

blast.  I 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LORD  PRE- 
SIDENT   DUNDAS 

Robert  Dundas  of  Arniston,  descended  from 
an  old  Scottish  family,  and  eldest  son  of  Rob- 
ert Dundas,  who  also  was  Lord  President  of 
the  Court  of  Session,  was  born  18th  July,  1713. 
He  was  appointed  Lord  Advocate  in  1754,  and 
in  1760  became  Lord  President,  in  which  capa- 
city he  acquired  a  high  repute  for  courtesy, 
fairness,  and  ability.  He  died  loth  December, 
1787.  In  a  letter  to  Alexander  Cunningham, 
lltli  March,  1791,  Burns  states  that  he  wrote 
the  verses  at  the  suggestion  of  Alexander 
Wood,  Surgeon,  and  that  Wood  left  them,  to- 
gether with  a  letter  from  the  author,  in  the 
house  of  the  Lord  President's  son  (see  ante,  p. 
168,  Prefatory  Note  to  The  Dean  of  the  Faculty); 
that  Mr.  Dundas  "  never  took  the  smallest  no- 
tice of  the  letter,  the  poem,  or  the  poet ;  "  and 
that  since  then  he  (Burns)  never  saw  the  name 
of  Dundas  in  a  newspaper  but  his  "  heart  felt 
straitened  "  in  his  "bosom."  He  makes  a  sim- 
ilar statement  in  an  interleaved  copy  of  his 
Poems  presented  to  Bishop  Geddes,  but  adds  : 
"  Did  the  fellow  —  the  gentleman  —  think  I 
looked  for  any  dirty  gratuity  ?  ' '  No  doubt 
Dundas  did  think  so  :  none,  either,  that  Burns, 
by  this  time  a  person  of  importance,  was  hope- 
ful of  —  not  a  present  in  money  but  a  place. 
In  a  letter  to  Charles  Hay,  Advocate,  published 
in  The  Scots  Magazine  (June,  1818),  where  the 
piece  appeared,  Burns  gives  a  different  ac- 
count of  its  origin:  "The  enclosed  poem  was 
written  in  consequence  of  your  suggestion, 
last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  It 
cost  me  an  hour  or  two  of  next  morning's  sleep, 
but  did  not  please  me  ;  so  it  lay  by,  an  iU- 
digested  effort,  till  the  other  day  that  I  gave 
it  a  critic  brush.  These  kind  of  subjects  are 
much  hackneyed  ;  and  besides,  the  wailings  of 
the  rhyming  tribe  over  the  ashes  of  the  great 
are  .  .  .  out  of  all  character  for  sincerity :  " 
which  well  enough  describes  both  the  quality 
and  the  effect  of  a  performance  meriting  no 
better  reception  than  it  got. 


ii 


ELEGY   ON   WILLIE   NICOL'S    MARE 


175 


Lone   on   the    bleaky   hills,    the    straying 

flocks 
Shun  the  fierce  storms  among  the  shelter- 
ing rocks; 
Down  foam  the  rivulets,  red  with  dashing 

rains; 
The  gatliering  floods  burst  o'er  the  distant 

plains; 
Beneath     the    blast     the    leafless    forests 

groan ; 
The  hollow  caves  return  a  hollow  moan. 
Ye  hills,  ye  plains,  ye  forests,  and  ye  caves, 
Ye   howling   winds,   and    wintry    swelling 

waves, 
Unheard,  unseen,  by  human  ear  or  eye. 
Sad  to  your  sympathetic  glooms  I  fly. 
Where  to  the  whistling  blast  and  water's 

roar 
Pale    Scotia's    recent    wound   I   may   de- 
plore ! 
O  heavy  loss,  thy  country  ill  could  bear  ! 
A  loss  these  evil  days  can  ne'er  repair  ! 
Justice,  the  high  vicegerent  of  her  God, 
Her  doubtful  balance  eyed,  and  sway'd  her 

rod; 
Hearing  the  tidings  of  the  fatal  blow, 
She  sank,  abandon'd  to  the  wildest  woe. 
Wrongs,  injuries,  from  many  a  darksome 

den, 
Now   gay  in  hope   explore   the   paths    of 

men. 
See  from  his  cavern  grim  Oppression  rise. 
And  throw  on  Poverty  his  cruel  eyes  ! 
Keen  on  the  helpless  victim  let  him  fly. 
And  stifle,  dark,  the  feebly-bursting  cry  ! 
Mark    Ruffian    Violence,    distained    with 

crimes. 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times  ! 
View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a  prey, 
As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the    erring 

way; 
While  subtile  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks   of  Right  and 

Wrong  ! 
Hark,  injur'd  Want  recoimts  th'  unlisten'd 

tale, 
-    And  much-wrong'd  Mis'ry  pours  th'  unpit- 
I  ied  wail ! 

Ye  dark,  waste  hills,  ye  brown,  unsightly 

plains, 
Congenial  scenes,  ye  soothe  my  mournful 

strains. 
Ye   tempests,    rage  !    ye    turbid    torrents, 

roll! 


Ye  suit  the  joyless  tenor  of  my  soul. 

Life's  social  haunts  and  pleasures  I  re- 
sign; 

Be  nameless  wilds  and  lonely  wanderings 
mine. 

To  mourn  the  woes  my  country  must  en- 
dure: 

That  wound  degenerate  ages  cannot  cure. 


ELEGY    ON    WILLIE    NICOL'S 
MARE 

Probably  William  Nicol  (see  post,  p.  195, 
Epita}}h  for  William  Nicol)  bought  the  nag 
for  use  in  his  holidays  at  Moffat.  She  got  into 
poor  condition,  and  Burns  offered  to  take  her 
to  Ellisland  to  recruit.  When,  however,  he 
had  got  her  into  good  enough  condition  for 
Dumfries  Fair,  she  suddenly  died  of  an  unsus- 
pected affection  of  the  spine.  In  the  letter, 
9th  February,  1790,  enclosing  the  Elegy  he 
wrote  :  "I  have  like-wise  strung  four  or  five 
barbarous  stanzas  to  the  tune  of  Chevy  Chase, 
by  way  of  Elegy  on  your  poor  unfortunate 
mare,  beginning  (the  name  she  got  here  was 
Peg  Nicholson) :  '  Peg  Nicholson,'  "  etc.  No 
doubt,  the  mare  was  named  after  Margaret 
Nicholson,  who,  being  insane,  tried  to  stab 
George  III.  on  2d  August,  1186. 


Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare 

As  ever  trod  on  aim; 
But  now  she  's  floating  down  the  Nith, 

And  past  the  mouth  o'  Cairn. 


Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare, 
An'  rode  thro'  thick  an'  thin; 

But  now  she  's  floating  down  the  Nith, 
And  wanting  even  the  skin. 

Ill 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare, 

And  ance  she  bore  a  priest; 
But  now  she  's  floating  down  the  Nith, 

For  Solway  fish  a  feast. 

IV 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare, 
An'  the  priest  he  rode  her  sair; 

And  much  oppress'd,  and  bruis'd  she  was. 
As  priest-rid  cattle  are. 


176 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


LINES    ON    FERGUSSON 


Ill-fated  genius  !  Heaven-taught  Fergus- 
son  ! 
What  heart  that  feels,  and  will  not  yield 
a  tear 
To  think  Life's  sun  did  set,  e'er  well  be- 
gun 
To  shed   its    influence    on    thy  bright 
career ! 


O,  why  should  truest  Worth   and  Genius 
pine 
Beneath   the    iron   grasp   of   Want  and 
Woe, 
While   titled   knaves   and  idiot  -  greatness 
shine 
In  all  the   splendour  Fortune    can  be- 
stow ? 


ELEGY     ON     THE     LATE     MISS 
BURNET   OF    MONBODDO 

Elizabeth  Burnet,  the  "fair  Bumet "  of  the 
Address  to  Edinburgh  (ante,    p.  7;!),  ^f, /^e 
younger  daughter  of  James  Bumet,  LordMon- 
hoMo.     Burns  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  Mon- 
boddo's   house   in    1786-7;    and    almost   wor- 
shipped the  fair  hostess.     "His  favourite  for 
looks     and     manners,"     wrote     Mrs.     Alison 
Cockburn,   "is    Bess  Burnet  — no  bad  judge 
indeed."     In   a   letter   to   WUliam    Chalmers 
(27th   December,    1786),   he    describes  her  as 
"  the  heavenly  Miss  Burnet,"  and  declares  that 
"  there  has  not  been  anything  nearly  like  her 
in  aU  the  combinations  of  beauty,  grace,  and 
goodness  the  great  Creator  has  formed,  since 
MUton's  Eve  on  the  first  day  of  her  existence. 
Being  asked,  after  his  first  visit  to  the  house, 
by   Father  Geddes,  if   he  admired  the  young 
lady,  "  I   admired  God  Almighty  more    than 
ever"  he  replied;  "Miss  Burnet  is  the  most 
heavenly  of    all    His  works."     This   fair   and 
gi-acious  creature  died   (of  consumption)  l<th 
June,  1790,  in  her  twenty-fifth  year.     Ip  the 
Elegy  Bums  once  more  "  falls  to  his  English  ; 
and  with  the  wonted  result.     Yet  it  was  long 
on  the  anvil.     In  enclosing  a  copy  to  Alexander 
Cunningham,  23d  January,  1791,  he  states  that 
he  had  been  hammering  at  it  for  months  ;   and 
so  dissatisfied  is  he  with  the  result  that  he  still 
calls  it  a  fragment.     He  was  wise  enough  not 
to  include  it  in  Edition  '93. 


Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize 
As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies; 
Nor  envious  Death  so  triumph'd  in  a  blow 
As  that  which  laid  th'  aceomplish'd  Burnet 
low. 


Thy   form   and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I 

forget  ? 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set ! 
In  thee   high   Heaven    above   was  truest 

shown. 
For  by  His  noblest  work  the  Godhead  best 

is  known. 

Ill 

In   vain  ye   flaunt   in  summer's  pride,  ye 
groves  ! 
Thou  crystal  streamlet  with  thy  flowery 
shore, 
Ye  woodland  choir  that  chaunt  your  idle 
loves. 
Ye  cease  to  charm :  Eliza  is  no  more. 

IV 

Y^e  heathy  wastes  immix'd  with  reedy  fens, 

Y''e  mossy  streams  with  sedge  and  rushes 

stor'd. 

Ye  rugged  cliffs  o'erhanging  dreary  glens, 

To  you  I  fly :  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

V 

Princes   whose    cumb'rous  pride   was  all 

their  worth. 

Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail. 

And  thou,  sweet  Excellence  !  forsake  our 

earth, 

And  not  a  Muse  with  honest  grief  bewail  ? 

VI 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beauty's 
pride 
And   Virtue's  light,  that  beams  beyond 
the  spheres; 
But,  like  the  sun  eclips'd  at  morning  tide, 
Thou  left  us  darkling  m  a  world  of  tears. 

VII 

The   parent's   heart   that   nestled   fond  in 

thee,  . 

That   heart  how  sunk,  a   prey  to   griel 

and  care  !  . 

So  deckt  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree^ 

So,  rudely  ravish'd,  left  it  bleak  and  barej 


ON    GENERAL   DUMOURIER'S    DESERTION 


177 


PEGASUS     AT      WANLOCKHEAD 

Written  in  Ramage's  Inn  while  the  maker's 
horse's  shoes  were  frosting.  On  arriving  at 
the  village  with  a  companion,  John  Sloan,  he 
found  the  smith  too  busy  to  attend  immediately 
to  his  wants.  Sloan  thereupon  applied  to  Mr. 
John  Taylor,  a  person  of  influence,  to  speak  to 
the  smith  :  "  Sloan's  best  compliments  to  Mr. 
Taylor,  and  it  would  be  doing  him  and  the 
Ayrshire  Bard  a  particular  favour  if  he  would 
oblige  them  instanter  with  his  agreeable  com- 
pany. The  road  has  been  so  slippery  that  the 
liders  and  the  brutes  were  equally  in  danger 
of  getting  some  of  their  bones  broken.  For 
the  Poet  his  life  and  limbs  are  of  some  conse- 
quence to  the  world ;  but  for  poor  Sloan  it 
matters  very  little  what  may  become  of  him. 
The  whole  of  this  business  is  to  ask  the  fa- 
vour of  gt<tting  the  horses'  shoes  sharpened." 
Bums  presented  the  verses  —  which,  to  be 
sure,  are  poor  enough  —  to  Taylor  before  he 
left  the  inn. 

I 

With  Pegasus  upon  a  day 

Apollo,  weary  flying 
(Through  frosty  hills  the  journey  lay), 

On  foot  the  way  was  plying. 


Poor  slip-shod,  giddy  Pegasus 
Was  but  a  sorry  walker; 

To  Vulcan  then  Apollo  goes 
To  get  a  frosty  caulker. 


Obliging  Vulcan  fell  to  work, 
Threw  by  his  coat  and  bonnet, 

And  did  Sol's  business  in  a  crack 
Sol  paid  him  in  a  sonnet. 


Ye  Vulcan's  sons  of  Wanloekhead, 

Pity  my  sad  disaster  ! 
My  Pegasus  is  poorly  shod  — 

I  '11  pay  you  like  my  master  ! 
Ramaob's,  3  o'clock. 


ON   SOME    COMMEMORATIOxNS 
OF    THOMSON 

A  trifle  —  produced  extempore  —  which 
Bums,  as  he  acknowledged  to  Graham  of 
Fintry,  5th  January,  1793,  had  sent  to  Captain 


Johnstone's  "  extremist  sheet,"  The  Edinburgh 
Gazetteer .  To  publish  it  was  almost  to  stultify 
himself ;  for  had  he  not  made  the  verses  re- 
cited at  the  Earl  of  Buchan's  ceremony  (see 
ante,  p.  93)  ?  StUl,  on  reading  an  account  of 
the  proceedings,  he  may  have  recognised  that 
the  ridiculous  Earl  had  simply  utilised  him  for 
his  own  glorification. 


Dost  thou  not  rise,  indignant  Shade, 
And  smile  wi'  spurning  scorn, 

When  they  wha  wad  hae  starved  tliy  life 
Thy  senseless  turf  adorn  ? 


They  wha  about  thee  niak  sic  fuss 

Now  thou  art  but  a  name, 
Wad  seen  thee  damn'd  ere  they  had  spar'd 

Ae  plack  to  fill  thy  wame. 


Helpless,  alane,  thou  clamb  the  brae 

Wi'  meikle  honest  toil. 
And  claucht  th'  unfading  garland  there, 

Thy  sair-won,  rightful  spoil. 


.Ajid  wear  it  there  !  and  call  aloud 
This  axiom  undoubted:  — 

Would  thou  hae  Nobles'  patronage  ? 
First  learn  to  live  without  it  ! 


"  To  whom  hae  much,  more  shall  be  given  " 

Is  every  great  man's  faith ; 
But  he,  the  helpless,  needful  wretch, 

Shall  lose  the  mite  he  hath. 


ON   GENERAL    DUMOURIER'S 
DESERTION 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  REPUBLICAN  ARMY 

Charles  Francois  Dumonriez.  being  recalled 
by  the  Convention  after  Neerwinden  (January, 
1793),  and  menaced  with  a  charge  of  treason, 
took  refuge  in  the  Austrian  camp.  After 
many  wanderings  he  settled  in  England  (1804) 
at  Turville  Park,  near  Henley-on-Thames,  and 
died  there  14th  March.  1823.  [Dampierre.  one 
of  his  generals,  and  Beurnonville.  an  emissary 
of  the  Convention  biit  a  friend  of  Dumouriez, 
had  disappointed  him  by  retaining  their  alle- 
giance to  the    Republic.     Dampierre   became 


lyS 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


commander-in-chief  on  the  defection  of  his 
superior  aud  was  killed  in  batile  soon  after. 
Beurnonville  lived  to  become  a  peer  and  Min- 
ister of  State  under  Louis  XVI II.] 

The  piece  is  a  rough  but  spirited  and  char- 
acteristic parody  of  the  old  bacchanalian  set  of 
Mobin  Adair. 


You  're  welcome  to  Despots, 
Dumourier  ! 

You  're  welcome  to  Despots, 
Dumourier  ! 

How  does  Dampierre  do  ? 

Ay,  and  Beurnonville  too  ? 
Why  did  they  not  come  along  with  you, 
Dumoiirier  ? 


I  will  fight  France  with  you, 
Dumourier, 

I  will  fight  France  with  you, 
Dumourier, 

I  will  fight  France  with  you, 

I  will  take  my  chance  with  you. 
By  my  soul,  I  '11  dance  with  you, 
Dumourier  ! 


Then  let  us  fight  about, 

Dumourier  ! 

Then  let  us  fight  about, 

Dumourier! 

Then  let  us  fight  about 

Till  Freedom's  spark  be  out. 
Then  we  '11  be  damn'd,  no  doubt, 
Dumourier. 


ON   JOHN    M'MURDO 

Cunningham  states  that  the  verses  (such  as 
they  are)  ''  accompanied  a  present  of  books  or 
verse  ;  "  and  that  afterwards  Burns,  being  on 
a  visit  to  the  house,  took  out  a  diamond,  and 
wrote  them,  as  he  was  fond  of  doing,  on  a  pane 
of  glass.  For  M'Murdo  see  ante,  p.  143,  Prefa- 
tory Note  to  To  John  M'Murdo. 

Blest  be  M'Murdo  to  his  latest  day  ! 
No  envious  cloud  o'ercast  his  evening  ray  ! 
No  wrinkle  furrow'd  by  the  hand  of  care. 
Nor  ever  sorrow,  add  one  silver  hair  ! 
O  may  no  son  the  father's  honor  stain, 
Nor  ever  daughter  give  the  mother  pain  ! 


ON  HEARING  A  THRUSH  SING 
IN  A  MORNING  WALK  IN  JAN- 
UARY 

Enclosed  in  a  letter  to  Alexander  Cunning- 
ham, 20th  February,  1793 :  "  I  made  the  fol- 
lowing sonnet  the  other  day,  which  has  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  obtain  the  approbation  of  no 
ordinary  judge,  our  friend  Sime."  It  was  also 
sent  to  Maria  Riddell  as  "  a  small  but  sincere 
mark  of  esteem." 

Sing   on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless 

bough. 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain: 
See  aged  Winter,  'mid  his  surly  reign, 
At  thy  blythe   carol  clears   his   furrowed 

brow. 
So  in  lone  Poverty's  dominion  drear 
Sits   meek   Content  with  light,  unanxious 

heart, 
Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them 

part. 
Nor  asks  if  they  bring  ought  to  hope  or 

fear. 
I  thank  Thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day. 
Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yon  orient 

skies  ! 
Riches  denied.  Thy  boon  was  purer  joys: 
W^hat  wealth  could  never   give   nor   take 


away 


Yet  come,  thou  child  of  Poverty  and  Care, 
The  mite  high  Heav'n  bestow'd,  that  mite 
with  thee  I  '11  share. 


IMPROMPTU   ON    MRS.   RID- 
DELL'S    BIRTHDAY 

4TH   NOVEMBER,    1 793 

Mrs.  Walter  Riddell,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Maria  Woodley,  was  the  daughter  of 
William  Woodley,  Commander  and  Governor 
of  St.  Kitts  and  the  Leeward  Islands.  She 
married  in  the  West  Indies  Walter  RiddeU, 
younger  brother  of  Captain  Robert  Riddell, 
who  had  an  estate  in  Antigua.  In  1791  the 
couple  settled  at  Goldielea,  near  Dumfries, 
which  Riddell  bought,  and  which  he  named 
Woodley  Park  in  honour  of  his  wife.  Burns 
became  a  favoured  visitor  and  a  warm  friend 
and  admirer  of  the  lady,  who  was  handsome, 
clever,  and  highly  accomplished.  In  April, 
1793,  he  made  a  song  in  her  honour.     [See  post,  \ 


SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RIDDELL 


179 


p.  280,  Prefatory  Note  to  Farewell,  thou  Stream.^ 
It  reads  like  a  reckless  avowal  of  passion  ;  but 
he  disarmed  the  lady's  criticism  and  resent- 
ment —  a  fact  not  hitherto  ^  set  f oi-th  —  by  de- 
scribing it  as  "  cold  and  inanimate,"  and  pro- 
j  testing-  that  ' '  to  write  a  line  worth  reading  on 
the  subject,"  it  "  would  be  absolutely  neces- 
sary "  for  him  "  to  get  in  love."  Then,  at  a 
party  at  Woodley  Park,  in  January,  1794,  he 
and  the  men  got  drunk  in  the  dining-room. 
The  talk  ran  on  the  Rape  of  the  Sabines,  and 
they  seem  to  have  gone  to  the  drawing-room 
with  the  design  of  giving  a  friendly  imitation 
of  the  Romans.  This,  so  far  as  can  be  divined, 
they  did:  Burns  —  who  was  in  liquor,  and 
may  well  have  lost  his  head  in  other  ways  — 
laying  rude  hands  on  his  hostess.  On  the  mor- 
row he  sent  her  a  desperate  apology  ''  from 
the  regions  of  hell,  amid  the  horrors  of  the 
damned."  "  To  the  men  of  the  company."  he 
added,  "  I  will  make  no  apology  :  —  Your  hus- 
band, who  insisted  on  my  drinking  more  than 
I  chose,  has  no  right  to  blame  me ;  and  the 
other  gentlemen  were  partakers  of  my  guilt." 
But  the  indignant  lady  disregarded  this  and 
other  overtures,  and  Woodley  Park  was  for 
some  time  shut  to  him.  Also,  when  Mrs.  Rid- 
dell  disliked  or  disdained,  she  was  apt  (as 
Burns  had  noted  in  a  letter  to  Smellie,  22d 
January,  17^2)  ''to  make  no  more  secret  of 
it "  than  when  she  respected  and  esteemed  ; 
and  he  was  rewarded  for  his  too-too  practical 
proof  of  admiration,  not  only  with  the  loss  of 
Captain  Riddell's  friendship,  but  with  estrange- 
ment also  from  Maria's  intimates.  This  roused 
the  cad  in  him,  and  he  perpetrated  the  ignoble 
Esopus  to  Maria  {ante,  p.  123),  and  a  number  of 
"  epigrams  "  on  her  husband  and  herself  (see 
post)  which  have  neither  wit  nor  decent  feel- 
ing. These  notwithstanding,  by  the  February 
of  1795  Mrs.  Riddell's  anger  had  begim  to  cool. 
She  sent  her  Bard  a  book,  together  with  a  song 
of  her  own  inditing :  — 

"  For  there  he  rov'd  that  broke  my  heart. 
Yet  to  that  heart,  ah  !  still  how  dear  !  " 

and  the  old,  broken  friendship,  howbeit  in  a 
more  chastened  strain,  was  gradually  renewed. 
While  he  was  at  Brow,  Mrs.  Riddell,  who  was 
staying  in  the  neighbourhood,  invited  the  dy- 
ing man  to  dinner.  His  greeting  was  :  '"  Well, 
madam,  have  you  any  commands  for  the  other 
world  ?  "  He  expressed  to  her  "  great  concern 
about  the  care  of  his  literary  fame  ;  "  regretted 
the  existence  of  "letters  and  verses  written 
with  unguarded  and  improper  freedom  ;  "  and 
lamented  "  that  he  had  written  many  epigrams 
on  persons  against  whom  he  entertained  no 
enmity,  and  whose  characters  he  should  be 
sorry  to  wound."  After  his  death  she  wrote 
a  sketch  of  his  character  so  admirable  in  tone, 
1  Tljat  is,  before  the  Centenary  Kditioii. 


and  withal  so  discerning  and  impartial  in  under- 
standing, that  it  remains  the  best  thing  written 
of  him  by  contemporary  critic.  Being  left  a 
widow  (Walter  Riddell,  who  was  something 
of  a  wastrel,  bad  got  rid  of  Woodley  Park) 
Maria  married  (18U7)  Philipps  Lloyd  Fletcher, 
a  Welsh  gentleman ;  but  died  on  the  l.jth  De- 
cember, 1808.  bhe  published  (1)  Voyages  to 
the  Madeira  and  Leeward  and  Caribbean  Isles, 
with  Sketches  of  the  Natural  History  of  these 
Islands  (Edinburgh,  1792),  printed  by  William 
Smellie,  to  whom  she  dedicated  the  book  ;  and 
(2)  The  Metrical  Miscellany  (1802),  with  eigh- 
teen songs  of  her  own. 


Old  Winter,  with  his  frosty  beard, 
Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferred:  — 
"  What  have  I  done  of  all  the  year. 
To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 
My  cheerless  suns  no  pleasure  know; 
Night's  horrid  car  drags  dreary  slow; 
My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning. 
But  spleeny,  English  hanging,  drowning. 


Now  Jove,  for  once  be  mighty  civil: 

To  counterbalance  all  this  evil 

Give  me,  and  I  've  no  more  to  say, 

Give  me  Maria's  natal  day  ! 

That  brilliant  gift  shall  so  enrich  me, 

Spring,    Summer,  Autumn,  cannot  match 

me." 
"  'T  is  done  !  "  says  Jove ;  so  ends  my  story, 
And  Winter  once  rejoiced  in  glory. 


SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
ROBERT  RIDDELL  OF  GLEN- 
RIDDELL 

For  Captain  Riddell,  who  died  20th  April, 
179-4,  see  ante,  p.  142,  Prefatory  Note  to  Im- 
promptu to  Captain  Eiddell. 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more, 

Nor  pour  your  descant  grating  on  my  soid  ! 

Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  ver- 
dant stole, 

Alore  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter's 
wildest  roar  ! 

How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flowers,  with  all 
your  dj-es  ? 

Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my 
friend. 


i8o 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


How  can  I  to  the  tuneful  strain  attend  ? 
That  strain  flows  round  the  untimely  tomb 

where  Riddell  lies. 
Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of 

woe, 
And  sooth  the  Virtues  weeping  o'er  his  bier  ! 
The  man  of  worth  —  and   "  hath   not  left 

his  peer  "  !  — 
Is  in  his  "  narrow  house  "  for  ever  darkly 

low. 
Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others 

greet; 
Me,  memory  of  my  loss  will  only  meet. 


A   SONNET   UPON    SONNETS 

We  have  done  our  utmost  to  determine 
whether  this  copy  of  verses  —  one  of  the 
crowd  of  pieces  produced  in  imitation  of  Lope 
de  Vega  on  the  Sonnet :  — 

"  Un  soneto  me  manda  hacer  Violante,"  etc.  ; 
or  of  Voiture  on  the  Rondeau  :  — 

"  Ma  foy  !  C'est  fait  de  moi.     Car  Isabeau,"  etc.  — 

be  very  Burns  or  merely  a  copy  of  Burns's 
handwriting' ;  and  we  have  also  taken  counsel 
with  such  experts  as  Dr.  Garnett  and  Mr. 
Austin  Dobson.  It  seems  to  be  unknown  ;  and 
we  have  assumed  that  it  is  one  of  his  few 
metrical  experiments  (see  ante,  p.  144,  Prefa- 
tory Note  to  Sonnet,  etc.). 

Fourteen,  a  sonneteer  thy  praises  sings; 
What  magic  myst'ries  in  that  number  lie  ! 
Your  hen  hath  fourteen  eggs  beneath  her 

wings 
That  fourteen  chickens  to  the  roost  may  fly. 
Fourteen  full  pounds  the    jockey's    stone 

must  be; 
His  age  fourteen  —  a  horse's  prime  is  past. 
Fourteen  long  hours  too  oft  the  Bard  must 

fast; 
Fourteen  bright  bumpers  —  bliss  he  ne'er 

must  see  ! 
Before  fourteen,  a  dozen  yields  the  strife ; 
Before  fourteen  —  e'en  thirteen's  strength 

is  vain. 
Fourteen  good  years  —  a  woman  gives  us 

life; 
Fourteen   good   men  —  we   lose   that   life 

again. 
What  lucubrations  can  be  more  upon  it  ? 
Fourteen   good   measur'd   verses    make   a 

sonnet. 


FRAGMENTS 

TRAGIC   FRAGMENT 

"  In  my  early  years  nothing  less  would  serve 
me  than  courting  the  Tragic  Muse.  I  was, 
I  think,  about  eighteen  or  nineteen  when  I 
sketched  the  outlines  of  a  tragedy,  forsooth  ; 
but  the  bursting  of  a  cloud  of  family  misfor- 
tunes, which  had  for  some  time  threatened  us, 
prevented  my  further  progress.  In  those  days 
I  never  wrote  down  anything  ;  so,  except  a 
speech  or  two,  the  whole  has  escajied  my 
memory.  The  following,  which  I  most  dis- 
tinctly remember,  was  an  exclamation  from  a 
great  character  —  great  in  occasional  instances 
of  generosity  and  daring  at  times  in  villanies. 
He  is  supposed  to  meet  with  a  child  of  misery, 
and  exclaims  to  himself  :  '  All  villain,'  "  etc. 
(R.  B.)  Scott  Douglas  refers  this  'prentice  ex- 
ercise —  ke  calls  it  a  "  pathetic  address  "  —  to 
family  misfortunes  and  the  study  of  Shake- 
speare. Burns's  own  description  is  preferable 
as  regards  the  intention  of  the  thing. 

All  villain  as  I  am  —  a  damned  wretch, 
A   hardened,   stubborn,    unrepenting    sin- 
ner — 
Still  my  heart  melts  at  human  wretched- 
ness. 
And  with  sincere,  tho'  unavailing,  sighs 
I  view  the  helpless  children  of  distress. 
With  tears  indignant  I  behold  the  oppres- 
sor 
Rejoicing  in  the  honest  man's  destruction, 
Whose    unsubmitting    heart   was    all    his 

crime. 
Ev'n  you,  ye  hapless  crew  !     I  pity  you; 
Ye,  whom  the  seeming  good  think  sin  to 

pity: 
Ye  poor,  despised,  abandoned  vagabonds. 
Whom  Vice,  as  usual,  has  turn'd  o'er  to 

ruin. 
Oh  !  but  for  friends  and  interposing  Hea- 
ven, 
I  had  been  driven  forth,  like  you  forlorn. 
The  most  detested,  worthless  wretch  among 

you! 
O    injured    God !    Thy  goodness    has   en- 

dow'd  me 
With   talents   passing   most   of    my   com- 
peers, 
Which  I  in  just  proportion  have  abused, 
As  far  surpassing  other  common  villains 
As    Thou  in  natural  parts  has  given  me 
more. 


ON   WILLIAM    SMELLIE 


i8i 


REMORSE 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  that  judicious  Philo- 
sopher, Mr.  Smith,  in  his  excellent  Theory  of 
Moral  Sentiments,  that  Remorse  is  the  most 
painful  sentiment  that  can  embitter  the  human 
bosom.  Any  ordinary  j^itch  of  fortitude  may 
bear  up  tolerably  well  under  those  calamities, 
in  the  procurement  of  which  we  ourselves  have 
had  no  hand  ;  but  when  our  own  follies  or 
crimes  have  made  us  miserable  and  wretched, 
to  bear  it  up  with  manly  firmness,  and  at  the 
same  time  have  a  proper  penitential  sense  of 
our  misconduct,  is  a  glorious  effort  of  self- 
command."     (R.  B.) 

Of   all   the   numerous   ills   that  hurt  our 

peace, 
That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  mind  with 

anguish. 
Beyond  comparison  the  worst  are  those 
By  our  own  folly,  or  our  guilt  brought  ou: 
In  ev'ry  other  circumstance,  the  mind 
Has   this  to  say:  —  "It   was   no   deed  of 

mine." 
But,  when  to  all  the  evil  of  misfortune 
This  stiug  is  added:  —  "  Blame  thy  foolish 

self  !  " 
Or,  worser  far,  the  pangs  of  keen  remorse, 
The   torturing,   gnawing   consciousness  of 

guilt. 
Of  guilt,  perhaps,  where   we  've  involved 

others, 
The  young,  the  innocent,  who  fondly  lov'd 

us; 
Nay,  more,  that  very  love  their  cause  of 

ruin  ! 
O  burning  Hell  !  in  all  thy  store   of  tor- 
ments 
There  's  not  a  keener  lash  ! 
Lives  there  a  man  so  firm,  who,  while  his 

heart 
Feels  all  the  bitter  horrors  of  his  crime. 
Can  reason  down  its  agonizing  throbs, 
And,  after  proper  purpose  of  amendment. 
Can  firmly  force   his  jarring  thoughts   to 

peace  ? 
O  happy,  happy,  enviable  man  ! 
O  glorious  magnanimity  of  soul  ! 


RUSTICITY'S    UNGAINLY    FORM 

Blnclosed  in  a  volume  of  songs  sent  to  Mrs. 
Lawrie  of  Newmilns.  Chambers  states  that  it 
was  intended  as  a  justification  of  the  writer's 


defence  of  Miss  Peggy  Kennedy  (see  Young 
Peggy,  post,  p.  201),  when  he  touched  on  the 
topic  of  her  "  fall  "  in  such  a  fashion  as  to 
make  Mrs.  Lawrie  forbid  discussion.  But  Miss 
Kennedy's  "  fall  "  was  stUl  to  come. 


Rusticity's  ungainly  form 
May  cloud  the  highest  mind; 

But  when  the  heart  is  nobly  warm, 
The  e:ood  excuse  will  find. 


Propriety's  cold,  cautious  rules 
Warm  Fervour  may  o'erlook; 

But  spare  poor  Sensibility 
Th'  ungentle,  harsh  rebuke. 


ON    WILLIAM    CREECH 

Sent  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  23d  October,  1788,  with 
the  fragment  on  William  Smellie :  "  These," 
he  wrote,  "  are  embryotic  fragments  of  what 
may  one  day  be  a  poem."  Another  instalment, 
sent  on  the  2!)th,  he  afterwards  incorporated  in 
To  Robert  Graham  of  Fintry  {ante,  p.  85).  His 
subject  was  his  publisher  (see  ante,  p.  118,  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  Lament,  etc.). 

A  LITTLE  upright,  pert,  tart,  tripping  wight, 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight; 
Who  loves  his  own  smart  shadow  in  the 

streets 
Better  than  e'er  the  fairest  She  he  meets. 
Much  specious  lore,  but  little  understood 
(Veneering  oft  outshines  the  solid  wood), 
His  solid  sense  by  inches  you  must  tell, 
But  mete  his  subtle  cunning  by  the  ell  ! 
A  man  of  fashion,  too,  he  made  his  tour, 
Learn'd     "  Vive     la     bagatelle     et     vive 

1' amour:  " 
So  traveli'd  monkies  their  grimace  improve, 
Polish   their   grin  —  nay,    sigh    for   ladies' 

love  ! 
His  meddling  vanity,  a  busy  fiend, 
Still  making  work   his  selfish  craft    must 

mend. 


ON   WILLIAM    SMELLIE 

William  Smellie  was,  says  Burns  (undated 
letter  to  Peter  Hill),  ''a  man  positively  of  the 
first  abilities  and  greatest  strength  of  mind,  as 
well  as  one  of  the  best  heai-ts  and  keenest  wits  " 


l82 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


that  he  had  "ever  met  with."  The  son  of 
Alexander  Smellie,  an  Edinburgh  architect,  he 
was  bom  in  the  Pleasanee  (Edinburgli)  in  1740. 
Being  apprenticed  to  a  firm  of  printers,  he  yet 
contrived  to  attend  the  Greek,  Latin,  and  He- 
brew classes  at  the  University,  and  to  achieve 
distinction  in  them  all.  His  love  of  knowledge 
once  awakened,  he  was  not  content  till  he  had 
completed  the  round  of  literary  and  scientific 
study,  including  the  full  Medical  Course.  In 
1765  he  became  partner  in  a  firm  which  some 
years  later,  as  Balfour  and  Smellie,  was  ap- 
pointed Printers  to  the  University  ;  and  on  its 
dissolution  in  1 782  he  took  in  Creech,  engaging 
himself  the  while  in  literature  and  —  especially 
—  science.  He  was  credited  with  at  least  the 
preparation  for  the  press  of  Buehan's  Domestic 
Medicine,  1770 ;  he  supervised  and  in  great 
part  compUed  the  first  Encyclopedia  Britan- 
nica,  1777 ;  he  edited  The  Edinburgh  Magazine 
and  Review,  1773-1776  ;  he  translated  Buffon's 
Natural  History,  9  vols.  1780-1781 ;  he  ^.^Tote 
the  Philosophy  oj"  Natural  History,  2  vols.  1790- 
1799  —  to  name  but  these.  He  died  24th  June, 
1795.  He  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  club 
known  as  "  The  Crochallan  Fencibles,"  for 
whose  ''  use "'  the  collection  called  The  Merry 
Muses  of  Caledonia  is  stated  (on  the  title-page) 
to  have  been  "  selected,"  and  which  met  in  an 
historic  tavern  kept  by  the  Highlander  David 
Douglas.  This  same  Douglas  occasionally  en- 
tertained his  guests  by  singing  the  Gaelic  song 
Chro  Challin  =  '"  Cattle  of  Colin  ;  "  and  in  a 
whimsical  spirit  Smellie  appropriated  the  song's 
name  to  the  brotherhood. 

Crochallan  came: 
The  old  cock'd  hat,  the  brown  surtout  the 

same; 
His  grisly  beard  just  bristling  in  its  might 
('T  was  four  long  nights  and  days  to  shav- 
ing-night) ; 
His   uncomb'd,  hoary   locks,   wild-staring, 

thatch'd 
A  head   for  thought   profound   and   clear 

unmatch'd; 
Yet,  tho'  his  caustic  wit  was  biting  rude, 
His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 


SKETCH    FOR   AN    ELEGY 

Probably  the  original  form  of  the  elegy  on 
Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  although  his  name 
is  not  mentioned. 


Craigdarroch,  fam'd  for  speaking  art 
And  every  virtue  of  the  heart, 


Stops  short,  nor  can  a  word  impart 
To  end  his  sentence, 

When  mem'ry  strikes  him  like  a  dart 

With  auld  acquaintance. 


Black  James  —  whase  wit  was  never  laith. 
But,  like  a  sword  had  tint  the  sheath, 
Ay  ready  for  the  work  o'  death  — 

He  turns  aside, 
And  strains  wi'  suffocating  breath 

His  grief  to  hide. 


Even  Philosophic  Smellie  tries 

To  choak  the  stream  that  floods  his  eyes: 

So  Moses  wi'  a  hazel-rice 

Came  o'er  the  stane; 
But,  tho'  it  cost  him  speaking  twice, 

It  gush'd  amain. 


Go  to  your  marble  graffs,  ye  great, 
In  a'  the  tinkler-trash  of  state  ! 
But  by  thy  honest  turf  1  '11  wait. 

Thou  man  of  worth. 
And  weep  the  ae  best  fallow's  fate 

E'er  lay  in  earth  ! 


PASSION'S    CRY 

The  earlier  written  part,  beginning  line  19, 
"  I  burn,  I  burn,"  etc..  was  produced  in  1787, 
after  hearing  the  end  of  a  divorce  case  in 
which,  on  March  7th,  the  Court  of  Session  de- 
cided that  the  husband  might  proceed  against 
the  lover  without  divorcing  his  wife.  (The 
oratorical  methods  of  the  leading  counsel  are 
quizzed  in  In  the  Court  of  Session,  p.  183.) 
The  lady,  who  was  heiress  of  Skerrington, 
AvTshire,  bore  a  child  to  Captain  Montgomerie 
in  November,  1784;  and  the  husband  chose  not 
to  interfere  with  the  marriage  settlements,  but 
punished  the  lover,  and  maintained  the  matri- 
mony as  of  old.  Bums's  sympathies  were 
strongly  with  the  lover  and  the  lady.  "Oall 
ye  powers  of  love  unfortunate,  and  friendless 
woe,"  he  writes  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  "pour  the 
balm  of  sympathising  pity  on  the  grief-worn, 
tender  heart  of  the  hapless  fair  one  !  " 


Mild  zephyrs  waft  thee  to  life's  farthest 

shore, 
Nor  think  of  me  and  my  distresses  more  ! 


EXTEMPORE  IN  THE   COURT  OF   SESSION 


183 


Falsehood  accurst  !  No !  Still  I  beg  a 
place, 

Still  near  thy  heart  some  little,  little  trace  ! 

For  that  dear  trace  the  world  I  would  re- 
sign: 

O,  let  me  live,  and  die,  and  think  it  mine  ! 

By  all  I  lov'd,  neglected,  and  forgot, 

No  friendly  face   e'er  lights  my  squalid 

cot. 
Sbunn'd,   hated,   wrong'd,   unpitied,  unre- 

drest 
The  mock'd  quotation  of  the  scorner's  jest; 
Ev'n  the  poor  support  of  my  wretched  life, 
Snatched  by  the  violence  of  legal  strife; 
Oft  grateful  for  my  very  daily  bread. 
To  those  my  family's  once   large  bounty 

fed; 
A  welcome  inmate  at  their  homely  fare, 
My  griefs,  my  woes,  my  sighs,  my  tears 

they  share: 
Their  vulgar  souls  milike    the   souls   re- 
fined, 
The  fashion'd  marble  of  the  polish'd  mind. 

"I   burn,  I  burn,  as  when   thro'   ripen'd 

corn 
By  driving  winds  the  crackling  flames  are 

borne." 
Now,  maddening-wild,  I  curse  that  fatal 

night, 
Now  bless  the  hour  that  charm'd  my  guilty 

sight. 
In  vain  the  Laws  their  feeble   force  op- 
pose: 
Chain'd  at  his  feet,  they  groan  Love's  van- 

quish'd  foes. 
In  vain  Religion  meets  my  shrinking  eye: 
I  dare  not  combat,  but  I  turn  and  fly. 
Conscience  in  vain  upbraids  th'  unhallow'd 

fire. 
Love   grasps   his   scorpions  —  stifled   they 

expire. 
Reason   drops   headlong   from   his   sacred 

throne. 
Your  dear  idea  reigns,  and  reigns  alone ; 
Each  thought  intoxicated  homage  yields, 
And  riots  wanton  in  forbidden  fields. 

By  all  on  high  adoring  mortals  know. 
By  all  the  conscious  villain  fears  below; 
By    what,    alas  S     much    more     my    soul 

alarms  — 
My  doubtful  hopes  once  more  to  fill  thy 

arms  — 


Ev'n   shouldst    thou,   false,  forswear  the 

guilty  tie. 
Thine  and  thine  only  I  must  live  and  die  I 


IN  VAIN  WOULD  PRUDENCE 

In  vain  would  Prudence  with  decorous 
sneer 

Point  out  a  censuring  world,  and  bid  me 
fear: 

Above  tliat  world  on  wings  of  love  I  rise, 

I  know  its  worst,  and  can  that  worst  de- 
spise. 

'•  Wrong'd,  injur'd,  shunn'd,  unpitied,  un- 
redrest, 

The  mock'd  quotation  of  the  scorner's 
jest," 

Let  Prudence'  direst  bodements  on  me 
fall, 

Clarinda,  rich  reward  !  o'erpays  them  all. 


THE  CARES  O'  LOVE 

HE 

Xhe  cares  o'  Love  are  sweeter  far 

Than  onie  other  pleasure; 
And  if  sae  dear  its  sorrows  are. 

Enjoyment,  what  a  treasure  ! 

SHE 

I  fear  to  try,  I  dare  na  try 

A  passion  sae  ensnaring; 
For  light 's  her   heart   and   blythe  's  her 
song 

That  for  nae  man  is  caring. 


EPIGRAMS 

EXTEMPORE    IN    THE    COURT 
OF   SESSION 

Tune  :  Killiecrankie 

The  oratorical  duel  thns  cleverly  thumb- 
nailed  was  between  Islay  Campbell,  Lord  Ad- 
vocate, and  Henry  Erskine,  Dean  of  Faculty, 
in  a  certain  divorce  case  (1787),  as  to  which 
sf>e  ante,  p.  182,  Prefatory  Note  to  Passion's 
Cry. 


1 84 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


LORD  ADVOCATE 

He  clench'd  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist, 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted, 
Till  in  a  declamation-mist 

His  argument,  he  tint  it: 
He  gaped  for  't,  he  graped  for  't. 

He  fand  it  was  awa,  man; 
But  what  his  common  sense  came  short, 

He  ek^d  out  wi'  law,  man. 

MR.  ERSKINE 

Collected,  Harry  stood  awee. 

Then  open'd  out  his  arm,  man; 
His  lordship  sat  wi'  ruefu'  e'e, 

And  ey'd  the  gathering  storm,  man; 
Like  wind-driv'n  hail  it  did  assail. 

Or  torrents  owre  a  linn,  man; 
The  Bench  sae  wise  lift  up  their  eyes, 

Hauf-wauken'd  wi'  the  din,  man. 


AT  ROSLIN  INN 

Chambers  states  that  Bums  breakfasted  at 
the  inn  after  a  ramble  in  the  Pentlands  with 
Alexander  Nasmyth,  the  painter.  He  further 
relates  that  the  ramble  was  taken  after  trans- 
gressing "  the  rules  of  sobriety  "  in  Edinburgh, 
and  sitting  "  till  an  early  hour  in  the  morn- 
ing." Part  of  this  on  the  authority  of  a  gos- 
sip who  "  lived  at  Roslin  at  the  time." 

My  blessings  on  ye,  honest  wife  ! 

I  ne'er  was  here  before; 
Ye  've  wealth  o'  gear  for  spoon  and  knife : 

Heart  could  not  wish  for  more. 
Heav'n  keep  you  clear  o'  sturt  and  strife. 

Till  far  ayont  fourscore, 
And  by  the  Lord  o'  death  and  life, 

I  '11  ne'er  gae  by  your  door  ! 


TO  AN  ARTIST 

Chambers  states  that  Bums,  entering  a 
studio  in  Edinburgh,  found  the  occupant  en- 
gaged on  a  Jacob's  Dream,  and  wrote  the  lines 
on  the  back  of  a  little  sketch. 

Dear ,  I  '11  gie  ye  some  advice, 

You  '11  tak  it  no  uncivil: 
You  shouldna  paint  at  angels,  man, 

But  try  and  paint  the  Devil. 


To  paint  an  angel 's  kittle  wark, 
Wi'  Nick  there  's  little  danger: 

You  '11  easy  draw  a  lang-keut  face, 
But  no  sae  weel  a  stranger. 

R.  B. 


THE    BOOK-WORMS 

Said  to  have  been  written  on  a  splendidly 
bound  but  worm-eaten  volume  of  Shakespeare 
in  a  nobleman's  library. 

Through  and  through  th'  inspired  leaves. 
Ye  maggots,  make  your  windings; 

But  O,  respect  his  lordship's  taste. 
And  spare  the  golden  bindings  ! 


ON 


ELPHINSTONE'S    TRANSLA- 
TION   OF    MARTIAL 


James  Elphin  stone  —  born  1721,  died  1809, 
—  published  his  egregious  translation  of  Mar- 
tial's Epigrams  in  1782.  "  A  Mr.  Elphin- 
stone,"  wrote  Burns  to  Clarinda,  "has  given 
a  translation  of  Martial,  a  famous  Latin  poet. 
The  poetry  of  Elphinstone  can  only  equal  his 
prose  notes.  I  was  sitting  in  a  merchant's  shop 
of  my  acquaintance  waiting  somebody ;  he 
put  Elphinstone  into  my  hand,  and  asked  my 
opinion  of  it.  I  begged  leave  to  write  it  on  a 
blank  leaf,  which  I  did."  A  facsimile  of  the 
inscription  —  below  Elphinstone's  "  Rhymed 
Address  to  the  Subscribers  "  —  was  published 
in  The  Burns  Chronicle  for  1894.  The  epigram 
was  doubtless  suggested  by  the  old  one  which 
served  as  a  model  for  On  Thanksgiving  for  a 
National  Victory  (see post,  p.  190). 

O  THOU  whom  Poesy  abhors. 

Whom  Prose  has  turned  out  of  doors. 

Heard 'st  thou  yon  groan?  —  Proceed   no 

further  ! 
'T  was  laurel' d  Martial  calling  "  Murther  ! " 


ON  JOHNSON'S    OPINION    OF 
HAMPDEN 

Inscribed  on  a  copy  of  Johnson's  Lives,  pre- 
sented by  Bums  to  Alexander  Cunningham. 
A  comment  on  Johnson's  remark :  "  His  mother 
was  the  daughter  of  John  Hampden  of  Hamp- 


ON  SEEING  THE  ROYAL  PALACE  AT  STIRLING  IN  RUINS     185 


den,  in  the  same  county,  and  sister  to  Hampden, 
the  zealot  of  rebellion." 

For  shame  ! 
Let  Folly  and  Knavery 

Freedom  oppose: 
'T  is  suicide,  Genius, 
To  mix  with  her  foes. 


UNDER    THE    PORTRAIT   OF 

MISS    BURNS 

Cease,  ye  prudes,  your  envious  railing ! 

Lovely  Burns  has  charms:  confess  ! 
True  it  is  she  had  ae  failing: 

Had  ae  woman  ever  less  ? 


ON    MISS    AINSLIE    IN    CHURCH 

Miss  Ainslie  was  sister  to  Burns's  friend, 
Robert  Ainslie.  Burns,  on  his  Border  Tour, 
arrived  at  Berrywell,  Berwickshire,  the  farm 
of  Ainslie's  father,  on  .5th  May,  1787.  On  the 
Sunday,  as  related  in  his  Journal,  he  accom- 
panied the  family  to  church  at  Duns,  and, 
being  seated  next  Miss  Ainslie,  wrote  the 
lines  in  her  Bible,  apropos  of  her  search  for  a 
text  against  the  impenitent  denoted  by  the 
preacher.  In  his  Journal  he  sketches  the 
young  lady  thus :  "  Her  person  a  little  embon- 
point, but  handsome  ;  her  face,  particularly  her 
eyes,  f  vdl  of  sweetness  and  good  humour  ;  she 
unites  three  qualities  rarely  to  be  fouud  to- 
gether :  keen,  solid  penetration ;  sly,  witty  ob- 
servation and  remark  ;  and  the  gentlest,  most 
unaffected  female  modesty." 

Fair  maid,  you  need  not  take  the  hint. 

Nor  idle  texts  pursue ; 
'T  was  guilty  sinners  that  he  meant, 

Not  angels  such  as  you. 


AT    INVERARAY 

Published  in  Stewart's  Poems  Ascribed  to 
Robert  Burns  (1801),  with  the  explanation 
that  Bums  found  "  himself  and  his  companion 
entirely  neglected  by  the  innkeeper,  whose 
whole  attention  seemed  to  be  occupied  "  by 
"  some  company "  on  a  visit  to  the  Duke  of 
Ai^yll. 


Whoe'er  he  be  that  sojourns  here, 

I  pity  much  his  case, 
Unless  he  come  to  wait  upon 

The  Lord  their  God,  "  His  Grace." 


There  's  naething  here  but  Highland  pride 
And  Highland  scab  and  hunger: 

If  Providence  has  sent  me  here, 
T  was  surely  in  an  auger. 


AT   CARRON    IRONWORKS 
Written  on  the  window  of  the  inn  at  Carron. 

We  cam  na  here  to  view  your  warks 

In  hopes  to  be  mair  wise, 
But  only,  lest  we  gang  to  Hell, 

It  may  be  nae  surprise. 

But  when  we  tiri'd  at  your  door 
Your  porter  dought  na  bear  us: 

Sae  may,  should  we  to  Hell's  yetts  come, 
Your  billie  Satan  sair  us. 


ON  SEEING  THE  ROYAL  PALACE 
AT  STIRLING  IN  RUINS 

Burns  reached  Stirling  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  Sunday  (26th  August)  which  saw  him 
"  tirling "  at  the  door  of  Carron  Ironworks. 
Visiting  Harvieston  on  the  Monday,  he  re- 
turned to  Stirling  that  evening.  Not  improba- 
bly these  lines  were  written  after  the  jolly 
supper  mentioned  in  his  Journal.  The  inscrip- 
tion was  published,  with  the  intention  of  show- 
ing Burns  up,  in  James  Maxwell's  rhymed 
Animadversions  on  Some  Poets  and  Poetasters 
(1788),  and  it  appears  in  Cunningham  (1834). 
As  we  learn  from  a  letter  to  Clarinda,  January, 
1788,  Burns,  on  applying  for  a  place  in  the 
Excise,  was  severely  questioned  about  it. 

Here  Stewarts  once  in  glory  reign'd, 
And  laws  for  Scotland's  weal  ordain'd; 
But  now  unroof 'd  their  palace  stands, 
Their  sceptre  fallen  to  other  hands: 
Fallen  indeed,  and  to  the  earth, 
Whence     grovelling    reptiles     take    their 
birth  ! 


i86 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


The  injured  Stewart  line  is  gone, 

A  race  outlandish  fills  their  throne: 

An  idiot  race,  to  honour  lost  — 

Who  know  them  best  despise  them  most. 


ADDITIONAL    LINES    AT    STIR- 
LING 

Published  by  Cunningham  (1834),  who  states, 
but,  as  usual,  without  giving  his  authority,  that 
Burns  wrote  the  preceding  inscription  on  the 
Monday  morning,  and,  being  remonstrated  with 
by  Nicol  on  his  return  from  Harvieston,  added 
this  mock  "  reproof  to  the  author." 

Rash    mortal,   and   slanderous   poet,    thy 

name 
Shall  no  longer   appear  in  the  records  of 

Fame  ! 
Dost   not   know   that   old  Mansfield,  who 

writes  like  the  Bible, 
Says,  the  more  't  is  a  truth,  Sir,  the  more 

't  is  a  libel  ? 


REPLY    TO    THE    THREAT    OF    A 
CENSORIOUS    CRITIC 

With  ^sop's  lion.  Burns  says:  —  "  Sore  I 

feel 
Each   other   blow:    but   damn    that    ass's 

heel ! " 


A    HIGHLAND    WELCOME 

When  Death's  dark  stream  I  ferry  o'er 
(A  time  that  surely  shall  come), 

In  Heaven  itself  I  '11  ask  no  more 
Than  just  a  Highland  welcome. 


AT   WHIGHAM'S    INN,   SAN- 
QUHAR 

Envy,  if  thy  jaundiced  eye 
Through  this  window  chance  to  spy. 
To  thy  sorrow  thou  shalt  find 
All  that 's  generous,  all  that 's  kind. 
Friendship,  virtue,  every  grace. 
Dwelling  in  this  happy  place. 


VERSICLES    ON    SIGN-POSTS 

"The  everlasting  surliness  of  a  lion  and 
Saracen's  head,"  etc.  —  thus  does  Burns  pre- 
face tliem  —  "or  the  unchanging  blandness  of 
the  landlord  welcoming  a  traveller,  on  some 
sign-posts,  would  be  no  bad  similes  of  the  con- 
stant affected  fierceness  of  a  Bully,  or  the 
eternal  simper  of  a  Frenchman  or  a  Fiddler." 


He  looked 
Just  as  your  sign-post  Lions  do, 
With  aspect  fierce  and  quite  as  harmless 
too. 


(patient  stupidity) 

So  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest's  shocks. 
Dull  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 


His  face  with  smile  eternal  drest 
Just  like  the  landlord  to  his  guest, 
High  as  they  hang  with  creaking  din 
To  index  out  the  Country  Inn. 


A  HEAD,  pure,  sinless  quite  of  brain  and 

soul. 
The  very  image  of  a  barber's  poll: 
Just  shews  a  human  face,  and  wears  a  wig. 
And  looks,  when  well  friseur'd,  amazing  big. 


ON    MISS   JEAN    SCOTT 

O,  HAD  each  Scot  of  ancient  times 
Been,  Jeanie  Scott,  as  thou  art. 

The  bravest  heart  on  English  ground 
Had  yielded  like  a  coward. 


ON    CAPTAIN    FRANCIS    GROSE 

The    Devil   got     notice    that    Grose   was 

a-dying. 
So  whip  !  at  the  summons,  old  Satan  came 

flying; 
But  when  he  approach'd  where  poor  Francis 

lay  moaning, 
And   saw   each   bed-post  with  its  burthen 

a-groaning, 


IN   LAMINGTON   KIRK 


187 


Astonish'd,  confounded,  cries  Satan:  —  "  By 
God, 

I    I'd  want  him  ere  take  such   a   damnable 
^  load  ! " 


ON    BEING    APPOINTED    TO    AN 
EXCISE    DIVISION 

The  appointment  was  made  in  August,  1789. 

Searching  auld  wives'  barrels, 

Ochon,  the  day 
That  clarty  barm  should  stain  my  laurels  ! 

But  what  '11  ye  say  ? 
These  movin'  things  ca'd  wives  an'  weans 

Wad  move  the  very  hearts  o'  stanes. 


ON    MISS    DAVIES 

For  Miss    Davies,    see   Prefatory   Note   to 
Bonie  Wee  Thing,  post,  p.  236. 

Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small. 
And  why  so  huge  the  granite  ? 

Because  God  meant  mankind  should  set 
That  higher  value  on  it. 


ON   A   BEAUTIFUL   COUNTRY 
SEAT 

For  Maxwell  of  Cardoness,  see   post,  p.  197, 
Prefatory  Note  to  On  a  Galloway  Laird. 

We  grant  they  're  thine,  those  beauties  all. 

So  lovely  in  our  eye: 
Keep  them,  thou  eunuch,  Cardoness, 

For  others  to  enjoy. 


THE   TYRANT   WIFE 

Curs'd  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch  in 
life. 

The  crouching  vassal  to  the  tyrant  wife  ! 

Who  has  no  will  but  by  her  high  permis- 
sion; 


Who  has  not  sixpence  but  in  her  posses- 
sion; 

Who  must  to  her  his  dear  friend's  secret 
tell; 

Who  dreads  a  curtain  lecture  worse  than 
hell! 

Were  such  the  wife  had  fallen  to  my 
part, 

I  'd  break  her  spirit,  or  I  'd  break  her  heart: 

I  'd  charm  her  with  the  magic  of  a  switch, 

I  'd  kiss  her  maids,  and  kick  the  perverse 
bitch. 


AT    BROWNHILL    INN 

[A  play  upon  the  name  of  the  landlord, 
"  honest  Bacon  "  of  To  William  Stewart,  ante, 
p.  146.] 

At  Brownhill  we  always  get  dainty  good 

cheer 
And  plenty  of  bacon  each  day  in  the  year; 
We  've  a'  thing  that 's  nice,  and  mostly  in 

season: 
But  why  always  bacon  ?  —  come,  tell  me 

the  reason  ? 


THE   TOADEATER 

Of  Lordly  acquaintance  you  boast. 

And   the    Dukes    that   you   dined   with 
yestreen ; 

Yet  an  insect 's  an  insect  at  most, 

Tho'  it  crawl  on  the  curl  of  a  Queen ! 


IN    LAMINGTON    KIRK 

The  minister  was  Thomas  Mitchell.  He  was 
presented  (1772)  to  Kinglassie  by  the  Earl  of 
Rothes ;  but,  as  the  parishioners  were  unani- 
mously against  him,  it  was  arranged  that  he 
should  exchange  with  the  original  presentee  to 
Lamington.  He  is  described  as  ''  an  accom- 
plished scholar."     He  died  12th  March,  1811. 

As  cauld  a  wind  as  ever  blew, 
A  cauld  kirk,  and  in  't  but  few. 
As  cauld  a  minister's  ever  spak  — 
Ye  'se  a'  be  het  or  I  come  back  I 


i88 


POSTHUMOUS    PIECES 


THE    KEEKIN    GLASS 

Written  extempore  at  Dalswinton,  and 
handed  by  Burns  to  Miss  MUler,  his  landlord's 
daughter,  on  her  informing  him  that  one  of  the 
Lords  of  Justiciary  had  got  so  drunk  the  night 
before  that,  coming  into  the  drawing-room,  he 
pointed  at  her,  and  asked  her  father :  "  Wha  's 
yon  hoolet-f  aced  thing  i'  the  comer  ?  " 

How  daur  ye  ca'  me  "  Howlet-face," 
Ye  blear-e'ed,  wither'd  spectre  ? 

Ye  only  spied  the  keekin-glass, 
An'  there  ye  saw  your  picture. 


AT   THE    GLOBE   TAVERN,  DUM- 
FRIES 


The  greybeard,  old  Wisdom,  may  boast  of 
his  treasures, 
Give  me  with  gay  Folly  to  live  ! 
I  grant  him  his  calm-blooded,  time-settled 
pleasures, 
But  Folly  has  raptures  to  give. 


(I) 
I  MURDER  hate  by  field  or  flood, 

Tho'  Glory's  name  may  screen  us. 
In  wars  at  hame  I  '11  spend  my  blood  ■ 

Life-giving  wars  of  Venus. 
The  deities  that  I  adore 

Are  Social  Peace  and  Plenty: 
I  'm  better  pleas'd  to  make  one  more 

Than  be  the  death  of  twenty. 

(n) 
I  would  not  die  like  Socrates, 

For  all  the  fuss  of  Plato; 
Nor  would  I  with  Leonidas, 

Nor  yet  would  I  with  Cato; 
The  zealots  of  the  Church  and  State 

Shall  ne'er  my  mortal  foes  be; 
But  let  me  have  bold  Zimri's  fate 

Within  the  arms  of  Cozbi. 


My  bottle  is  a  holy  pool, 

That  heals  the  wounds  o'  care  an'  dool. 


And  pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout  — 
An  ye  drink  it,  ye  '11  find  him  out. 


In  politics  if  thou  would'st  mix 
And  mean  thy  fortunes  be; 

Bear  this  in  mind:  Be  deaf  and  blind. 
Let  great  folks  hear  and  see. 


YE   TRUE    LOYAL   NATIVES 

The  "  Loyal  Natives  Club  "  of  Dumfries  was 
formed  in  January,  179.3.  It  celebrated  the 
King's  birthday  on  4th  June  with  a  dinner  and 
a  ball.    Bums's  lines  were  in  reply  to  these  :  — 

THE   LOTAL   NATIVES'    VEESES 

"Ye  Sons  of  Sedition,  give  ear  to  my  song. 
Let  Syme,  Bume,  and  Maxwell  pervade  every  throng, 
With  Cracken,  the  attorney,  and  Mundell,  the  quack, 
Send  Willie,  the  monger,  to  hell  with  a  smack." 

Ye  true  "  Loyal  Natives,"  attend  to  my 
song: 

In  uproar  and  riot  rejoice  the  night  long  ! 

From  Envy  and  Hatred  your  core  is  ex- 
empt. 

But  where  is  your  shield  from  the  darts  of 
Contempt  ? 


ON 


COMMISSARY   GOLDIE'S 
BRAINS 


Goldie  was  President  of  the  Loyal  Natives. 

Lord,  to  account  who  does  Thee  call, 
Or  e'er  dispute  Thy  pleasure  ? 

Else  why  within  so  thick  a  wall 
Enclose  so  poor  a  treasure  ? 


IN    A   LADY'S    POCKET  BOOK 

Grant  me,  indulgent  Heaven,  that  I  may 

live 
To  see  the  miscreants  feel  the  pains  they 


give  ! 
Deal  Freedom's  sacred  treasures   free  as 

air, 
Till  Slave  and  Despot  be  but  things  that 


I 


ON   MISS   FONTENELLE 


189 


AGAINST   THE  EARL   OF  GAL- 
LOWAY 

Burns  went  a  jaunt  through  Galloway,  with 
John  Syme,  in  the  last  week  of  July,  179o. 
Between  Kenmure  and  Gatehouse  the  pair  got 
"  utterly  wet,"  and,  coining  to  Gatehouse, 
Burns  insisted  on  getting  "utterly  drunk."' 
Next  morning,  in  attempting  to  get  his  hoots 
on,  he  tore  them  to  shreds.  "  Mercy  on  us,"' 
wrote  Syme,  "  how  he  did  fume  and  rage  ! 
Nothing  could  reinstate  him  in  temper.  I  tried 
various  expedients,  and  at  last  hit  on  one  that 
succeeded.  I  showed  him  the  house  of  Gar- 
lieston,  across  the  bay  of  Wig-ton.  Against  the 
Earl  of  Galloway,  with  whom  he  was  offended, 
he  expectorated  his  spleen,  and  regained  a 
most  agreeable  temper." 

John  Stewart,  seventh  Eari  of  Galloway,  bom 
13th  March,  1736,  succeeded  to  the  peerage  24th 
September,  1773;  was  a  representative  Scottish 
Peer  from  1774  to  1790;  supported  Pitt,  and 
in  1784  was  chosen  a  Lord  of  the  Bedchamber  ; 
was  created  a  Peer  of  Great  Britain  6th  June. 
1796  ;  and  died  13th  November,  1806.  Being 
of  puritan  repute  and  habit,  he  was  a  persona 
ingrata  to  Burns,  who  satirised  him  in  The 
Heron  Election  Ballads.     See  ante,  p.  166. 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair  ? 

Flit,  Galloway,  and  find 
Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave, 

The  picture  of  thy  mind. 


ON   THE   SAME 

No  Stewart  art  thou,  Galloway: 
The  Stewarts  all  were  brave. 

Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fools. 
Not  one  of  them  a  knave. 


ON   THE   SAME 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  O  Galloway, 
Thro'  many  a  far-famed  sire  ! 

So  ran  the  far-famed  Roman  way. 
And  ended  in  a  mire. 


ON  THE  SAME,  ON  THE  AU- 
THOR BEING  THREATENED 
WITH  VENGEANCE 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  Galloway  ! 
In  quiet  let  me  live; 


I  ask  no  kindness  at  thy  hand, 
For  thou  hast  none  to  give. 


ON    THE    LAIRD   OF    LAGGAN 

Written  during  the  same  tour  as  the  Epi- 
grams preceding.  Having  settled  Lord  Gal- 
loway, he  afterwards,  wrote  Syme,  '"  fell  on 
humbler  game.  There  is  one  Morine  whom  he 
does  not  love.  He  had  a  passing  blow  at  him." 
Morine  had  bought  the  farm  of  Ellisland. 

When  Morine,  deceas'd,  to  the  Devil  went 

down, 
'T  was  nothing  would  serve  him  but  Satan's 

own  crown. 
"Thy   fool's   head,"   quoth    Satan,    "that 

ero\vn  shall  wear  never: 
I  grant  thou  'rt  as  wicked,  but  not  quite  so 

clever." 


ON    MARIA   RIDDELL 

Liscribed  on  the  back  of  a  draft  copy  of 
Scots  Wha  Hae,  now  in  the  possession  of  Mrs. 
Locker-Lampson.  The  heading  is,  "'On  my 
Lord  Buchan's  vociferating  in  an  argument 
that  '  Women  must  always  be  flattered  grossly 
or  not  spoken  to  at  aU.'  "  For  Maria  Riddell 
see  ante,  p.  178,  Prefatory  Note  to  Impromptu 
on  Mrs.  BiddelVs  Birthday. 

"  Praise  Woman  still,"  his  lordship  roars, 

"  Deserv'd  or  not,  no  matter  !  " 
But  thee  whom  all  my  soul  adores, 

There  Flattery  cannot  flatter  ! 
Maria,  all  my  thought  and  dream. 

Inspires  my  vocal  shell: 
The  more  I  praise  my  lovely  theme. 

The  more  the  truth  I  tell. 


ON    MISS    FONTENELLE 

"If  Miss  Fontenelle,"  wrote  Bums,  "will 
accept  this  honest  compliment  to  her  personal 
charms,  amiable  manners,  and  gentle  heart 
from  a  man  too  proud  to  flatter,  though  too 
poor  to  have  his  compliment  of  any  conse- 
quence, it  will  sincerely  oblige  her  anxious 
friend  and  most  devoted  hiunble  servant." 

Sa\'eet  naivete  of  feature, 
Simple,  wild,  enchanting  elf, 


190 


POSTHUMOUS    PIECES 


Not  to  thee,  but  thanks  to  Nature 
Thou  art  acting  but  thyself. 

Wert  thou  awkward,  stiff,  affected, 
Spurning  Nature,  torturing  art, 

Loves  and  Graces  all  rejected, 
Then  indeed  thou  'dst  act  a  part. 


KIRK   AND    STATE    EXCISEMEN 

Written  on  a  window  in  the  King's  Arms, 
Dumfries. 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  why  all  this 
sneering 

'Gainst  poor  Excisemen  ?  Give  the  cause 
a  hearing. 

What  are  your  Landlord's  rent-rolls  ?  Tax- 
ing ledgers  ! 

What  Premiers  ?  What  ev'n  Monarchs  ? 
Mighty  Gaugers  ! 

Nay,  what  are  Priests  (those  seeming  godly 
wise-men)  ? 

What  are  they,  pray,  but  Spiritual  Excise- 
men ! 


ON 


THANKSGIVING       FOR 
NATIONAL   VICTORY 


A 


The  victory  was  probably  Howe's,  off  Ushant, 
1st  June,  1794. 

Ye  hypocrites  !  are  these  your  pranks  ? 
To  murder  men,  and  give  God  thanks  ? 
Desist  for  shame  !     Proceed  no  further: 
God  won't   accept  your  thanks  for  Mur- 
ther. 


PINNED   TO  MRS.  WALTER  RID- 
DELL'S    CARRIAGE 

If   you   rattle   along  like  your  mistress's 
tongue, 
Your  speed  will  out-rival  the  dart; 
But,  a  fly  for  your  load,  you  '11  break  down 
on  the  road, 
If  your  stuff  be  as  rotten  '3  her  heart. 


TO    DR.   MAXWELL 

ON    MISS  JESSY   STAIG'S   RECOVERY 

For  Miss  Staig,  see  Prefatory  Note  to  Young 
Jessie  (post,  p.  276). 

Dr.  WUliam  Maxwell,  son  of  a  noted  Jacobite, 
James  Maxwell  of  Kiikconnell,  was  born  in 
1760.  He  was  educated  at  the  Jesuits'  College 
at  Dinant,  and  afterwards  studied  medicine 
at  Paris.  In  1792  he  started  a  London  sub- 
scription for  the  French  Jacobins,  and  he  is 
the  Englishman  said  in  Burke's  speech  (28th 
December,  1792)  to  have  ordered  three  thou- 
sand daggers  at  Birmingham.  As  a  National 
Guard  he  was  present  at  the  execution  of  Louis 
XVI.,  and  is  reported  to  have  dipped  his  hand- 
kerchief in  the  King's  blood.  When  Burns 
wrote,  he  had  just  returned  to  Scotland  and 
started  a  practice  in  Dumfries.  Burns  and  he 
became  fast  friends.  He  attended  Burns 
during  the  last  illness,  when  the  dying  man 
presented  him  with  his  pistols.  He  died  13th 
October,  1834. 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave, 

That  merit  I  deny: 
You  save  fair  Jessie  from  the  grave  !  — 

An  Angel  could  not  die  ! 


TO  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  ELIZA 
J N 

ON    HER   PRINCIPLES    OF   LIBERTY    AND 
EQUALITY 

How,  "  Liberty  !  "     Girl,  can  it  be  by  thee 

nam'd  ? 
"  Equality,"  too  !  Hussy,  art  not  asham'd  ? 
Free   and    Equal   indeed,    while   mankind 

thou  enchainest. 
And  over  their  hearts  a  proud  Despot  so 

reignest. 


ON    CHLORIS 

REQUESTING   ME   TO   GIVE    HER    A   SPRIG 
OF   BLOSSOMED   THORN 

From   the   white-blossom'd   sloe  my  dear 
Chloris  requested 
A  sprig,  her  fair  breast  to  adorn: 


TO   JOHN   SYME  OF   RYEDALE 


191 


'  No,  by  Heaven  !  "  I  exclaim'd,  "  let  me 
perish  for  ever, 
Ere  I  plant  in  that  bosom  a  thorn  !  " 


TO 


THE    HON.    WM.    R. 
OF    PANMURE 


MAULE 


Here  ^  published  for  the  first  time.  Sent  to 
Mrs.  Dunlop  in  a  letter  of  24th  October,  1794. 
After  telling  her  that  the  Caledonians  had 
been  at  Dumfries  for  the  last  fortnight,  Burns 
adds  :  "  One  of  the  corps  provoked  my  ire  the 
other  day,  which  burst  out  as  follows." 

The  Hon.  William  Ramsay  Maule,  the  second 
son  of  George  Ramsay,  Earl  of  Dalhousie,  was 
bom  27th  October,  1771.  He  succeeded  to 
Panraure  on  the  death  of  his  uncle,  William 
Earl  of  Panraure,  in  1787,  when  he  assumed 
the  surname  of  Maule ;  served  for  some  time 
in  the  11th  Dragoons;  was  chosen  M.  P.  for 
Forfar  in  1796  as  a  supporter  of  Fox  ;  on  9th 
September,  1831,  was  raised  to  the  British 
Peerage  as  Baron  Panmure  ;  and  died  l.'jth 
April,  1852.  He  appears  (with  his  horse)  in 
Kay's  Edinburgh  Portraits  as  "a  generous 
sportsman."  In  eifect,  he  was  ardent  in 
racing  and  cocking,  much  given  to  obstreper- 
ous practical  jokes,  and  not  too  exemplary  in 
his  general  habits :  at  the  same  time  that  he 
was  generous  to  his  dependants,  and  liberal  in 
regard  to  schemes  for  the  public  welfare.  He 
bestowed  an  annuity  of  £50  on  Burns's  widow. 

Thou  Fool,  in  thy  phaeton  towering, 

Art  proud  when  that  phaeton  's  prais'd  ? 

'T  is  the  pride  of  a  Thief's  exhibition 
When  higher  his  pillory  's  rais'd. 


ON    SEEING    MRS.    KEMBLE    IN 
YARICO 

The  lady  was  Mrs.  Stephen  Kemble,  who 
appeared  at  the  Dumfries  Theatre  in  October, 
1794. 

Kemble,  thou  cnr'st  my  unbelief 

Of  Moses  and  his  rod; 
At  Yarico's  sweet  notes  of  grief 

The  rock  with  tears  had  tlow'd. 


ON    DR.   BABINGTON'S    LOOKS 

Bums,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  refers  to 
the   subject   of   his  satire  "  as   a   well-known 
^  That  is,  in  the  Centenary  Editiou. 


character  here  "  —  that  is,  presumably,  Dum- 
fries. He  explains  that  it  was  in  answer  to 
one  who  said  "there  was  falsehood  in  his 
looks." 

That  there  is  a  falsehood  in  his  looks 

I  must  and  will  deny: 
They  say  their  Master  is  a  knave. 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


ON   ANDREW  TURNER 

In  Se'enteen  Hunder  'n  Forty-Nine 
The  Deil  gat  stuff  to  mak  a  swine. 

An'  coost  it  in  a  corner; 
But  wilily  he  chang'd  his  plan. 
An'  shap'd  it  something  like  a  man, 

An'  ca'd  it  Andrew  Turner. 


THE  SOLEMN   LEAGUE   AND 
COVENANT 

Inscribed  by  Burns  in  the  Dumfriesshire  vol- 
ume of  Sir  John  Sinclair's  Statistical  Account 
of  Scotland,  in  a  footnote  to  a  narrative  of  the 
Persecution  in  Balmaghie  parish. 

The  Solemn  League  and  Covenant 

Now  brings  a  smile,  now  brings  a  tear. 

But  sacred  Freedom,  too,  was  theirs: 
If  thou  'rt  a  slave,  indulge  thy  sneer. 


TO   JOHN    SYME   OF    RYEDALE 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  A  DOZEN  OF  PORTER 

John  Syme,  son  of  a  Writer  to  the  Signet  in 
Edinburgh,  was  bom  in  1755.  He  entered  the 
array  in  his  nineteenth  year,  but  after  his 
father's  death  resided  on  tlie  little  estate  of 
Barncailzie,  Kirkcudbrightshire.  Constrained 
to  sell  by  the  failure  of  the  Ayr  Bank,  he  ob- 
tained the  office  of  Distributor  of  Staraps  in 
Dumfries  in  1791.  Burns  inhabited  the  floor 
immediately  above  his  office,  and  presently  got 
to  regard  him  as  his  ''  supreme  court  of  criti- 
cal judicature  "  in  literary  matters.  Syme's 
rather  glowing  description  of  a  passage  be- 
tween him  and  Burns  (when,  being  rebuked 
for  his  excesses,  the  Bard  half  drew  on  him) 
was  made  the  matter  of  a  piece  of  criticism  by 
Walter  Scott  in  a  review  of  Cromek's  Reliques. 
In  July,  1793,  Burns  and  Syme  went  touring  in 


192 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


Galloway,  (see  ante,  pp.  188,  189,  Prefatory 
Note  to  Against  the  Earl  of  Galloway,  and  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  On  the  Laird  of  Laggan),  and 
after  Burns's  death  Syme  was  Alexander 
Cimningham's  chief  cooperator  in  the  work  of 
starting  a  subscription  for  his  friend's  family 
and  projecting  the  publication  of  his  posthu- 
mous poems  and  letters.  It  is  much  to  be 
regretted  that  he  did  not  undertake  the  editor- 
ship, as  at  one  time  it  was  thought  he  might, 
instead  of  Currie.  He  died  24th  November, 
1831. 

O,  HAD  the  malt  thy  strength  of  miud, 
Or  hops  the  flavour  of  thy  wit, 

'T  were  drink  for  first  of  human  kind  — 
A  gift  that  ev'n  for  Syme  were  fit. 

Jerusalem  Tavern, 
Dumfries. 


ON    A   GOBLET 
The  goblet  belonged  to  Syme. 

There  's  Death  in  the  cup,  so  beware  ! 

Nay,  more  —  there  is  danger  in  touch- 
ing ! 
But  who  can  avoid  the  fell  snare  ? 

The  man  and  his  wine  's  so  bewitching  ! 

APOLOGY   TO   JOHN    SYME 

Published  in  Currie  with  the  explanation: 
"On  refusing  to  dine  with  him,  after  having 
been  promised  the  first  of  company  and  the 
first  of  cookery,  17th  December,  1795." 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or 
not, 
And  cookery  the  first  in  the  nation: 
Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and 
wit 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 

ON    MR.   JAMES    GRACIE 

Gracie,  thou  art  a  man  of  worth, 

O,  be  thou  Dean  for  ever  ! 
May  he  be  damn'd  to  Hell  henceforth, 

Who  fauts  thy  weight  or  measure  ! 


AT   FRIARS   CARSE   HERMITAGE 

To  RiDDELL,  much-lamented  man, 

This  ivied  cot  was  dear: 
Wand'rer,  dost  value  matchless  worth  ? 

This  ivied  cot  revere. 


FOR  AN  ALTAR  OF   INDEPEN- 
DENCE 

AT  KERROUGHTRIE,  THE  SEAT  OF  MR. 
HERON 

For  Heron,  see  ante,  p.  164,  Prefatory  Note 
to  First  Heron  Election  Ballad. 

Thou  of  an  independent  mind, 

With  soul  resolv'd,  with  soul  resign'd, 

Prepar'd  Power's  proudest  frown  to  brave, 

Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a  slave, 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere, 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear: 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here. 


VERSICLES   TO   JESSIE   LEWARS 

THE   TOAST 

Inscribed  on  a  crystal  goblet  presented  to 
Miss  Lewars. 

Fill  me  with  the  rosy  wine; 
Call  a  toast,  a  toast  divine ; 
Give  the  Poet's  darling  flame; 
Lovely  Jessie  be  her  name: 
Then  thou  mayest  freely  boast 
Thou  hast  given  a  peerless  toast. 

THE   MENAGERIE 

Written  on  the  advertisement  of  a  travelling 
show,  which  in  May,  1796,  was  handed  to  Burns 
by  Mr.  Brown,  Surgeon,  in  Jessie's  presence. 


Talk  not  to  me  of  savages 
From  Afric's  burning  sun  ! 

No  savage  e'er  can  rend  my  heart 
As,  Jessie,  thou  hast  done. 


( 


ON   JAMES   GRIEVE,    LAIRD   OF   BOGHEAD,   TARBOLTON     193 


But  Jessie's  lovely  hand  in  mine 
A  mutual  faith  to  plight  — 

Not  even  to  view  the  heavenly  choir 
Would  be  so  blest  a  sight. 

JESSIE'S   ILLNESS 

Say,  sages,  what 's  the  charm  on  earth 
Can  turn  Death's  dart  aside  ? 

It  is  not  purity  and  worth, 
Else  Jessie  had  not  died  ! 

HER    RECOVERY 

But  rarely  seen  since  Nature's  birth 

The  natives  of  the  sky  ! 
Yet  still  one  seraph  's  left  on  earth, 

For  Jessie  did  not  die. 


ON    MARRIAGE 

That  hackney'd  judge  of  human  life. 

The  Preacher  and  the  King, 
Observes:  —  "  The  man  that  gets  a  wife 

He  gets  a  noble  thing." 
But  how  capricious  are  mankind, 

Now  loathing,  now  desirous  ! 
We  married  men,  how  oft  we  find 

The  best  of  thinsrs  will  tire  us  ! 


GRACES 

A    POET'S    GRACE 

BEFORE   MEAT 

O  Thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 

For  ev'ry  creature's  want ! 
We  bless  the  God  of  Nature  wide 

For  all  Thy  goodness  lent. 
And  if  it  please  Thee,  heavenly  Guide, 

May  never  worse  be  sent; 
But,  whether  granted  or  denied. 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content. 

AFTER   MEAT 

0  Thou,  in  whom  we  live  and  move, 
Who  made  the  sea  and  shore, 


Thy  goodness  constantly  we  prove, 
And,  grateful,  would  adore; 

And,  if  it  please  Thee,  Power  above  S 
Still  grant  us  with  such  store 

The  friend  we  trust,  the  fair  we  love, 
And  we  desire  no  more. 


AT   THE   GLOBE   TAVERN 
BEFORE   MEAT 

O  Lord,  when  hunger  pinches  sore. 

Do  Thou  stand  us  in  stead. 
And  send  us  from  Thy  bounteous  store 

A  tup-  or  wether-head. 

AFTER    MEAT 


Lord,  [Thee]  we  thank,  and  Thee  alone. 
For  temporal  gifts  we  little  merit  ! 

At  present  we  will  ask  no  more: 

Let  William  HIslop  bring  the  spirit. 


O  Lord,  since  we  have  feasted  thus, 
Which  we  so  little  merit. 

Let  Meg  now  take  the  flesh  away. 
And  Jock  bring  in  the  spirit. 


O  Lord,  we  do  Thee  humbly  thank 

For  that  we  little  merit: 
Now  Jean  may  tak  the  flesh  away, 

And  Will  bring  in  the  spirit. 


EPITAPHS 

ON    JAMES    GRIEVE,    LAIRD    OP 
BOGHEAD,  TARBOLTON 

The  epitaph  is  a  sort  of  reversal  of  that  oi 
Gavin  Hamilton,  ante,  p.  5o. 

Here  lies  Boghead  amang  the  dead 

In  hopes  to  get  salvation; 
But  if  such  as  he  in  Heav'n  may  be, 

Then  welcome  —  hail  !  damnation. 


194 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


ON    WM.    MUIR     IN    TARBOLTON 
MILL 

William  Muir,  described  in  the  First  Common 
Place  Book  as  "  luy  own  friend  and  my  father's 
friend,"  was  born  in  1745.  His  mill  at  Tar- 
bolton  is  mentioned  in  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook 
{ante,  p.  57,  stanza  v.  line  2).  Jean  Armour, 
being  expelled  her  father's  home,  found  shelter 
for  a  time  with  the  miller's  wife  (1787-8). 
Muir  died  in  1703 ;  and  Burns,  recalling  this 
piece  of  kindness,  wrote  to  Gavin  Hamilton 
that,  hearing  that  Mrs.  Muir  was  likely  to  be 
"involved  in  great  difficulties"  in  regard  to 
the  settlements,  he  was  ready  to  "  move  heaven 
and  earth  on  her  behalf,"  and  would  under- 
take, through  his  friends  in  Edinburgh,  to  get 
her  the  best  legal  assistance  free  of  charge. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest, 
As  e'er  God  with  His  image  blest: 
The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth. 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth: 
Few  hearts  like  his  —  with  virtue  warm'd, 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform'd: 
If  there  's  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss; 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 


ON    JOHN    RANKINE 

For  Rankine,  see  Prefatory  Note  to  Epistle 
to  John  Rankine,  ante,  p.  50. 

Ae  day,  as  Deatli,  that  gruesome  carl, 
Was  driving  to  tlie  tither  warl' 
A  mixtie-maxtie,  motley  squad 
And  monie  a  guilt-bespotted  lad: 
Black  gowns  of  each  denomination, 
And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station. 
From  him  that  wears  the  star  and  garter 
To  him  that  wintles  in  a  halter: 
Asham'd  himself  to  see  the  wretches, 
He  mutters,  glow'ring  at  the  bitches:  — 
"  By  God  I  '11  not  be  seen  behint  them. 
Nor  'mang  the  sp'ritual  core  present  them, 
W^ithout  at  least  ae  honest  man 
To  grace  this  damn'd  infernal  clan  !  " 
By  Adambill  a  glance  he  threw, 
"Lord  God  !  "  quoth  he,  "  I  have  it  now, 
There  's  just  the  man  I  want,  i'  faith  ! " 
And  quickly  stoppit  Rankine's  breath. 


ON    TAM    THE    CHAPMAN 

As  Tam  the  chapman  on  a  day 
Wi'  Death  forgather'd  by  the  way, 
Weel    pleas 'd   he   greets   a   wight   so   fa- 
mous, 
And  Death  was  nae  less  pleas'd  wi'  Thomas, 
Wha  cheerfully  lays  down  his  pack. 
And  there  blaws  up  a  hearty  crack: 
His  social,  friendly,  honest  heart 
Sae  tickled  Death,  they  could  na  part; 
Sae,  after  viewing  knives  and  garters. 
Death  takes  him  hame  to  gie  him  quar- 
ters. 


ON    HOLY   W^ILLIE 

For  William  Fisher,  see  ante,  p.  109,  Prefa- 
tory Note  to  Holy  Willie's  Prayer. 


Here  Holy  Willie's  sair  worn  clay 

Taks  up  its  last  abode; 
His  saul  has  taen  some  other  way  - 

I  fear,  the  left-hand  road. 


Stop  !  there  he  is  as  sure  's  a  gun  ! 

Poor,  silly  body,  see  him  ! 
Nae  wonder  he  's  as  black  's  the  grun  - 

Observe  wha  's  standing  wi'  him  ! 


Your  brunstane  Devilship,  I  see, 
Has  got  him  there  before  ye  ! 

But  baud  your  nine-tail-cat  a  wee, 
TQI  ance  you  've  heard  my  story. 

IV 

Your  pity  I  will  not  implore, 

For  pity  ye  have  nane. 
Justice,  alas  !  has  gi'en  him  o'er, 

And  mercy's  day  is  gane. 


But  hear  me,  Sir,  Deil  as  ye  are, 
Look  something  to  your  credit: 

A  cuif  like  him  wad  stain  your  name, 
If  it  were  kent  ye  did  it  I 


FOR  WILLIAM   NICOL 


195 


ON   JOHN    DOVE,    INNKEEPER 

Dove  was  landlord  of  the  Whitefoord  Arms, 
Manchline. 


Here  lies  Johnie  Pigeon: 
What  was  his  religion 

Whae'er  desires  to  ken 
To  some  other  warl' 
Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnie  Pigeon  had  nane  ! 


Strong  ale  was  ablution; 
Small  beer,  persecution; 

A  dram  was  memento  morij 
But  a  full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  saving  his  soul. 

And  port  was  celestial  glory  ! 


ON    A   WAG    IN    MAUCHLINE 

The   wag   was  James  Smith.     See  ante,  p. 
15,  Prefatory  Note  to  Epistle  to  James  Smith. 


Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a', 

He  aften  did  assist  ye; 
For  had  ye  staid  hale  weeks  awa', 

Your  wives  they  ne'er  had  missed  ye  ! 


Ye  Mauchline  bairns,  as  on  ye  pass 
To  school  in  bands  thegither, 

O,  tread  ye  lightly  on  his  grass  — 
Perhaps  he  was  your  father  ! 


ON  ROBERT  FERGUSSON 

ON  THE  TOMBSTONE  IN    THE   CANONGATE 
CHURCHYARD 

On  the  6th  February,  1787,  Burns  applied 
to  the  Kirk  Managers  of  the  Canongate  parish, 
Edinburgh,  for  permission  to  '"  lay  a  small 
stone  "  over  the  ''  revered  ashes "  of  Fergus- 
son,  to  "remain  an  inalienable  property  to  his 
deathless  fame  ;  "  and  his  request  was  unani- 
mously granted  on  the  22d  of  the  same  month. 
But  the  mason  whom  Robert  Burn,  the  archi- 
tect, employed  was  so  dilatory  that  the  com- 


mission was  not  executed  until  August,  1789. 
To  be  quits  with  his  architect.  Bums  did 
not  pay  the  account  (£5  10s.)  until  February, 
1792.  On  the  Uth  August,  1789,  the  following 
notice  appeared  in  The  Edinhuryh  Advertiser, 
and  on  the  13th  in  The  Evening  Courant : 
"  The  Ayrshire  Bard,  Mr.  Bums,  has  at  his 
own  expense  erected  a  monument  or  headstone 
in  the  Canongate  Church,  over  the  grave  of 
the  late  Mr.  Fergusson,  with  the  following 
inscription,"  etc.  On  the  reverse  of  the  stone 
is  the  declaration  :  ' '  By  special  grant  of  the 
Managers  to  Robert  Burns,  who  erected  this 
stone,  this  Burial  Place  is  to  remain  for  ever 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  Robert  Fergusson." 

HERE    LIES    ROBERT    FERGUSSON 
BORN    SEPT     5TH,    1751 
DIED   OCT     i6TH,    1774 

No  sculptur'd  Marble  here,  nor  pompous 
lay. 

No  storied  Urn  nor  animated  Bust; 
This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 

To  pour  her  sorrow  o'er  the  Poet's  dust. 


ADDITIONAL   STANZAS 


NOT   INSCRIBED 


She    mourns,   sweet    tuneful   youth,   thy 
hapless  fate: 
Tho'  all  the  powers  of  song  thy  fancy  fii-'d, 
Yet  Luxury  and  Wealth  lay  by  in  State, 
And,   thankless,   starv'd    what   they   so 
much  admir'd. 

II 

This  humble  tribute  with  a  tear  he  gives, 
A  brother  Bard  —  he  can  no  more  be- 
stow: 

But  dear  to  fame  thy  Song  immortal  lives, 
A  nobler  monument  than  Art  can  show. 


FOR   WILLIAM   NICOL 

William  Nicol  was  born  in  1744  at  Dumbret- 
ton,  in  the  parish  of  Annan.  In  early  child- 
hood he  lost  his  father;  while  still  a  mere 
youth  opened  a  school  in  his  mother's  house  ; 
studied,  at  the  University  of  Edinbiu^h.  first 
theology  and  then  medicine  ;  took  up  teaching 
again ;  and  in  1774  was  appointed  a  classical 


196 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


master  in  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh. 
Bums  met  him  in  that  city  as  a  Crochallan 
Club  man,  and  in  the  autumn  took  him  on  his 
Highland  tour.  His  visit  to  Nicol  at  Moffat  in 
1789  is  celebrated  in  O,  Willie  Brewed  a  Peck 
a  Maut  {post,  p.  229).  After  Nicol  bought  the 
little  property  of  Laggan,  in  Glencaira  parish 
(1790),  he  and  Burns  met  often  in  the  holidays, 
Bums  counting  him  his  '"  dearest  friend  "  after 
his  own  brother.  In  179-5  Nicol,  having  as- 
saulted the  Rector  of  the  High  School,  resigned 
his  mastership,  and  started  on  his  own  account ; 
but  late  hours  and  liquor  had  already  under- 
mined his  health,  and  he  died  21st  April,  1797. 

Ye  maggots,  feed  on  Nicol's  brain, 
For  few  sic  feasts  you  've  gotten; 

And  fix  your  claws  in  Nicol's  heart, 
For  deil  a  bit  o't  's  rotten. 


FOR    MR.   WILLIAM    MICHIE 

SCHOOLMASTER  OF  CLEISH  PARISH,  FIFE- 
SHIRE 

Here  lie  Willie  Michie's  banes: 

O  Satan,  when  ye  tak  him, 
Gie  him  the  schulin  o'  your  weans, 

For  clever  deils  he  '11  mak  them  ! 


FOR 


WILLIAM     CRUICKSHANK, 
A.   M. 


William  Cruick-shank  was  appointed  master 
of  the  Canongate  High  School.  Edinburgh,  in 
1770  ;  w^as  promoted  to  a  classical  mastership 
in  the  Edinburgh  High  School  in  1772 ;  and 
died  Sth  March,  1795.  His  only  daughter, 
Jenny  Cruickshank,  was  a  prime  favourite  with 
the  Poet.  See  Prefatory  Note  to  To  Miss 
Cruickshank,  ante,  p.  95. 

Now  honest  William 's  gaen  to  Heaven, 
I  wat  na  gin  't  can  mend  him: 

The  fauts  he  had  in  Latin  lay, 
For  nane  in  English  kent  them. 


ON    ROBERT   MUIR 

Robert  Muir,  son  of  William  Muir,  who  had 
the  little  estate  of  Loanfoot,  near  Ealmamock, 
was  bom  Sth  August,  1758,  and  became  a  wine 


merchant  at  Kilmarnock.  He  subscribed  with 
great  liberality  to  both  the  Kilmarnock  and 
the  Edinburgh  Editions,  and  letters  to  him  are 
included  in  Burns"s  Correspondence.  He  died 
of  consumption  22d  April,  1788. 

'  *  Muir,  thy  weaknesses  were  the  aberrations 
of  human  nature,  but  thy  heart  glowed  with 
everything  generous,  manly,  and  noble  ;  and.  if 
ever  emanations  from  the  all-good  Being  ani- 
mated a  human  form,  it  was  thine."   (R.  B.) 

What  man  could  esteem,  or  what  woman 
could  love, 

Was  he  who  lies  under  this  sod : 
If  such  Thou  refusest  admission  above, 

Then  whom  wilt  Thou  favour,  Good  God  ? 


ON   A   LAP-DOG 

The  lap-dog  belonged  to  Mrs.  Gordon  of 
Kenmore.  The  little  beast  had  died  just 
before  Burns  visited  her  during  his  Galloway 
tour,  and  she  was  importunate  that  he  should 
write  its  epitaph. 


In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng, 

Your  heavy  loss  deplore: 
Now  half  extinct  your  powers  of  song  - 

Sweet  Echo  is  no  more. 


Ye  jarring,  screeching  things  around, 
Scream  your  discordant  joys: 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  sound 
With  Echo  silent  lies. 


MONODY 

ON   A    LADY   FAMED   FOR    HER   CAPRICE 

The  lady  was  Maria  Riddell  (see  ante,  p.  178, 
Prefatory  Note  to  Impromptu  on  Mrs.  RiddeWs 
Birthday).  "The  subject  of  the  foregoing," 
Bums  wrote  to  Clarinda,  "  is  a  woman  of  fash- 
ion in  this  country,  with  whom  at  one  period  I 
was  well  acquainted.  By  some  scandalous  con- 
duct to  me,  and  two  or  three  other  gentlemen 
here  as  well  as  me,  she  steered  so  far  to  the 
north  of  my  good  opinion,  that  I  have  made 
her  the  theme  of  several  ill-natured  things." 
For  a  fairer  statement  of  the  case,  see  as  above, 
the  Prefatory  Note  to  Improvnptu. 


ON   A   GALLOWAY   LAIRD 


197 


How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  Folly  once 
fired  ! 
How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouge 
lately  glisten'd  ! 
How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft 
tired  ! 
How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flatt'ry  so 
listeu'd  ! 


If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await, 
From  friendship   and   dearest   affection 
remov'd, 
How  doubly  severer,  Maria,  thy  fate  ! 
Thou  diedst  unwept,  as  thou  livedst  un- 
lov'd. 

Ill 

Loves,  Graces,  and  Virtues,  I  call  not  on 
you: 
So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a 
tear. 
But  come,  all  ye  offspring  of  Folly  so  true, 
And  flowers  let  us  cull  for  Maria's  cold 
bier  ! 


We  '11  search  through  the  garden  for  each 
silly  flower, 
We  '11  roam   thro'  the  forest   for   each 
idle  weed, 
But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower, 

I       For  none  e'er  approach'd  her  but  rued 
the  rash  deed. 

V 

I   We  '11  sculpture  the  marble,  we  '11  measure 
the  lay: 
Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre  ! 
There  keen  Indignation  shall  dart  on  his 
prey, 
Which  spurning  Contempt  shall  redeem 
from  his  ire  ! 


THE    EPITAPH 

Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting  neglect, 
What  once  was  a  butterfly,  gay  in  life's 
beam: 

*    Want  only  of  vnsdom  denied  her  respect, 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  es- 
teem. 


FOR   MR.   WALTER   RIDDELL 

See  ante,  p.  178,  Prefatory  Note  to  Impromptu 
on  Mrs.  RiddelVs  Birthday. 

So  vile  was  poor  Wat,  such  a  miscreant 
slave, 

That  the  worms  ev'n  damn'd  him  when  laid 
in  his  grave. 

"  In  his  scull  there  's  a  famine,"  a  starved 
reptile  cries; 

"  And  his  heart,  it  is  poison,"  another  re- 
plies. 


ON    A   NOTED    COXCOMB 

CAPT.   WM.   RODDICK,   OF   CORBISTON 

Light  lay  the  earth  on  Billie's  breast, 
His  chicken  heart 's  so  tender; 

But  build  a  castle  on  his  head  — 
His  scull  will  prop  it  under. 

ON    CAPT.   LASCELLES 

When    Lascelles    thought    fit    from    this 

world  to  depart. 
Some  friends  warmly  spoke  of  embalming 

his  heart. 
A  bystander  whispers:  —  "  Pray  don't  make 

so  much  o't  — 
The  subject  is  poison,  no  reptile  will  touch 

it." 


ON    A   GALLOWAY    LAIRD 

NOT   QUITE    SO   WISE   AS    SOLOMOX 

David  Maxwell  of  Cardoness  —  described  to 
Mrs.  Dunlop  as  a  '"  stupid,  money-loving  dun- 
derpate,"  and  alluded  to  with  great  contempt 
in  an  Epigram  (see  p.  187),  and  in  the  Heron 
Election  Ballads  (q.  v.),  was  created  a  baronet 
in  1804,  and  died  in  1825. 

Bless  Jesus  Christ,  O  Cardoness, 
With  grateful  lifted  eyes. 

Who  taught  that  not  the  soul  alone 
But  body  too  shall  rise  ! 


198 


POSTHUMOUS   PIECES 


For  had  He  said:  —  "  The  soul  alone 
From  death  I  will  deliver," 

Alas  !  alas  !  O  Cardouess, 

Then  hadst  thou  lain  for  ever  ! 


ON  WM.  GRAHAM    OF    MOSS- 
KNOWE 

"  Stop   thief  ! "    Dame   Nature   call'd  to 

Death, 
As  Willie  drew  his  latest  breath: 
"  How  shall  I  make  a  fool  again  ? 
My  choicest  model  thou  hast  taen." 


ON  JOHN  BUSHBY  OF  TINWALD 
DOWNS 

Bushby,  the  son  of  a  spirit-dealer  in  Dum- 
fries, became  a  lawyer  and  afterwards  a  private 
banker  in  the  same  town.  Business  capacity 
and  a  g'ood  marriage  enabled  him  to  purchase 
Tinwald  Downs.  He  is  severely  satirised  in 
two  of  the  Heron  Election  Ballads^  more  par- 
ticularly John  Bushby^s  Lamentation  {ante,  p. 
166). 

Here  lies  John  Bushby — honest  mau  ! 
Cheat  him.  Devil  —  if  you  can  ! 


ON    A    SUICIDE 

Cunningham  says  that  Burns  was  seen  to 
write  the  trash  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  "  thrust 
it  with  his  fingers  into  the  red  moidd  of  the 
grave. ' ' 

Here  lies  in  earth  a  root  of  Hell 
Set  by  the  Deil's  ain  dibble: 

This  worthless  body  damn'd  himsel 
To  save  the  Lord  the  trouble. 


ON   A   SWEARING   COXCOMB 

Here  cursing,  swearing  Burton  lies, 
A  buck,  a  beau,  or  "  Dera  my  eyes  !  " 
Who  in  his  life  did  little  good, 
And   his   last   words   were:  —  "  Dem   my 
blood ! " 


ON  AN  INNKEEPER  NICKNAMED 
"THE    MARQUIS" 

The  inn  was  in  a  Dumfries  close. 

Here   lies  a  mock  Marquis,  whose  titles 

were  shamm'd. 
If  ever  he  rise,  it  will  be  to  be  damn'd. 


ON    GRIZZEL   GRIMME 

Mrs.  Grizzel  Young  was  the  widow  of  Thomas 
Young  of  Lincluden.  The  ancient  nunnery  of 
Lincluden  was  converted  into  a  college  by 
Archibald  the  Grim,  Earl  of  Douglas. 

Here  lyes  with  Dethe  auld  Grizzel  Grimme 

Lincluden's  ugly  witche. 
O  Dethe,  an'  what  a  taste  hast  thou 

Cann  lye  with  siche  a  bitche  ! 


FOR   GABRIEL   RICHARDSON 

Inscribed  on  a  crystal  goblet.  Gabriel 
Richardson  was  the  chief  brewer  of  Dumfries, 
and  Provost  of  the  burgh  in  1802-.3.  He  was 
the  father  of  Sir  John  Richardson,  naturalist 
and  traveller. 

Here  brewer  Gabriel's  fire  's  extinct, 

And  empty  all  his  barrels: 
He  's  blest  —  if  as  he  brew'd,  he  drink  — 

In  upright,  virtuous  morals. 


ON    THE   AUTHOR 

"  Wrote  by  Bums,  while  on  his  deathbed, 
to  John  Rankine,  Ayrshire,  and  forwarded  to 
him  immediately  after  the  Poet's  death." 
Stewart. 

He  who  of   Rankine  sang,  lies   stifP   and 

deid. 
And    a    green,   grassy   hillock    hides    his , 

heid: 
Alas  !  alas  !  a  devilish  change  indeed  ! 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL  MUSEUM" 


199 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM"   AND 
THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH    AIRS" 


The  present  section  consists  of  songs  sent 
by  Burns  to  Johnson's  Musical  Museum  and 
Thomson's  Scottish  Airs,  and  duly  set  forth  in 
these  collections.  Some  he  sent  which  were 
not  used,  and  some  were  used  which  he  did  not 
send.     These  appear  in  the  last  section. 

Burus's  earliest  reference  to  the  Museum  is 
contained  in  a  letter,  written  as  he  was  leaving 
Edinburgh,  of  the  4th  May,  1787.  He  tells 
Johnson  that  he  sends  a  song  ("never  before 
known  ")  for  his  publication,  and  that  had  the 
acquaintance  been  a  little  older,  he  would  have 
asked  the  favour  of  a  "  correspondence."  Only 
two  of  his  songs  appeared  in  Johnson's  First 
Volume,  the  Preface  to  which  is  dated  22d 
May,  1787 ;  and  it  is  possible  to  observe  in  de- 
tail neither  the  growth  of  his  acquaintance 
with  Johnson  himself  nor  that  of  his  interest 
in  Johnson's  venture.  He  seems,  however,  to 
have  made  special  arrangements  with  Johnson 
during  his  visit  to  Edinburgh  in  the  autumn  : 
at  any  rate,  there  are  indications  that  he  has 
resolved  —  entirely  as  a  labour  of  love  —  to  do 
his  best  for  both  the  man  and  the  book.  On 
the  20th  October  he  informs  Mr.  Hoy,  cham- 
berlain to  the  Duke  of  Gordon,  that,  to  "  the 
utmost  of  his  small  power,"  he  assists  "in  col- 
lecting the  old  poetry,  or  sometimes  for  a  fine 
air ''  makes  "  a  stanza  when  it  has  no  words  ;  " 
on  the  2.5th  he  confides  to  Skinner,  the  parson 
poet,  that  he  has  "  been  absolutely  crazed 
about "  the  project,  and  is  "  collecting  old 
stanzas,  and  every  information  respecting  their 
origin,  authors,"  etc.  ;  and  in  November  he  is 
found  asking  his  friend  James  Candlish  to 
send  him  "  Pompey^s  Ghost,  words  and  music," 
and  confessing  that  he  has  already  "  collected, 
begged,  borrowed,  and  stolen  all  the  songs " 
he  could.  All  this  is  in  the  beginning ;  and  of 
itself  it  were  enough  to  show  that,  even  had 
he  done  no  more,  stUl  Johnson's  debt  to  him 
had  been  considerable. 

But  there  is  evidence  in  plenty  that  he  was 
very  soon  a  great  deal  more  than  a  mere  con- 
tributor, however  unwearied  and  unselfish. 
Johnson  —  an  engraver,  who  could  neither 
write  grammatically  nor  even  spell  —  was 
quite  incompetent  himself  to  edit  the  Musfum  ; 
and  at  first  he  was  helped  by  tlie  elder  Tytler. 
But  that  Bums  was  virtually  editor  of  the 
work  from  the  autumn  of  1787  until  his  health 
began  to  fail,  is  proved  (1)  by  what  is  left  of 
his  correspondence  with  Johnson ;  (2)  by  his 
annotations  on  the  Hastie  MSS.  (British  Mu- 


seum) ;  and  (o)  by  certain  draft-plans  of  vol- 
umes, lists  of  songs,  and  other  MS.  scraps  now 
in  the  library  of  Mr.  George  Gray,  Glasgow, 
which  we  have  been  privileged  to  consult  for 
this  Edition.^  Thus,  in  November,  1788,  he 
tells  Johnson  that  he  has  prepared  a  "  flaming 
preface "  for  vol.  iii.  The  tone  of  it  is  not 
exactly  that  of  the  Preface  to  vol.  ii.  ;  but 
Burns  was  a  creature  of  moods,  and  he  may 
very  well  have  written  both.  If  he  did,  he 
ends  the  earlier  thus :  "  Ignorance  and  Pre- 
judice may  perhaps  aifect  to  sneer  at  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  poetry  or  music  of  some  of  those 
pieces,  but  their  having  been  for  ages  the 
favourites  of  Nature's  judges,  the  Common 
People,  Avas  to  the  Editor  a  sufficient  test  of 
their  merit."  The  next  is  less  humble  and 
more  cynical  as  regards  the  Vox  Populi.  "  As 
this  is  not,"  it  runs,  "  one  of  those  many  Pub- 
lications which  are  hourly  ushered  into  the 
World  merely  to  catch  the  eye  of  Fashion  in 
her  frenzy  of  a  day,  the  Editor  has  little  to 
hope  or  fear  from  the  herd  of  readers.  Con- 
sciousness of  the  well-known  merit  of  our 
Scottish  Music,  and  the  natural  fondness  of  a 
Scotchman  for  the  productions  of  his  own 
country,  are  at  once  the  Editor's  motive  and 
apology  for  the  Undertaking  ;  and  where  any 
of  the  Pieces  in  the  Collection  may  perhaps  be 
found  wanting  at  the  Critical  Bar  of  the  First, 
he  appeals  to  the  honest  prejudices  of  the 
Last."  Burns's  hand  is  also  plain  in  the  Pre- 
face to  vol.  iv.,  which  ends  with  this  pro- 
nouncement :  "  To  those  who  object  that  this 
Publication  contains  pieces  of  inferior  or  little 
value  the  Editor  answers  by  referring  to  his 
plan.  All  our  songs  cannot  have  equal  merit. 
Besides,  as  the  world  have  {sic)  not  yet  agreed 
on  any  unerri'ig  balance,  any  undisputed  stand- 
ard, in  matters  of  Taste,  what  to  one  person 
yields  no  manner  of  pleasure,  may  to  another 
be  a  high  enjoyment."  He  died  before  the 
appearance  of  vol.  v.  (there  were  six  in  all), 
but  the  Preface  thereto  contains  an  extract 
from  a  letter  of  his:  "You  may  probably 
think  that  for  some  time  past  I  have  neglected 
you  and  your  work  ;  but  alas,  the  hand  of  pain 
and  sorrow  and  care  has  these  many  months 
lain  heavy  on  me !  Personal  and  domestic 
affliction  have  almost  entirely  banished  that 
alacrity  and  life  with  which  I  used  to  woo  the 
rural  jluse  of  Scotia.  In  the  meantime  let  us 
finish  what  we  have  so  well  begun." 

In  the  September  of  1792  he  was  invited  by 
'  That  is>,  the  Ceuteuary  Edition. 


200 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


George  Thomson  to  contribute  to  his  Scottish 
Airs,  a  more  ambitious  and  —  musically  speak- 
ing —  a  more  elaborate  adventure  than  the 
Museum.  He  replied  that,  inasmuch  as  it 
would  positively  add  to  his  enjoyment  to  com- 
ply with  the  request,  he  would  "  enter  into  the 
undertaking  with  all  the  small  portion  of  the 
abilities "  he  had,  "  strained  to  the  utmost 
exertion  by  the  impulse  of  enthusiasm."  "  As 
to  remuneration,"  he  added,  "  you  may  think 
my  song-s  either  above  or  below  price  ;  for  they 
shall  absolutely  be  the  one  or  the  other.  In 
the  honest  enthusiasm  with  which  I  embark  in 
your  undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages, 
fee,  hire,  etc.,  would  be  downright  sodomy  of 
soul.  A  proof  of  each  of  the  songs  that  I  com- 
pose or  amend  I  shall  receive  as  a  favour.  In 
the  rustic  phrase  of  the  season :  '  God  speed 
the  work.'  "  Thomson  returns  his  "  warmest 
acknowledgment  for  the  enthusiasm  with 
which "  Burns  has  ''  entered  into  our  under- 
taking ;  ' '  but  as  he  says  nothing  of  Burns's 
admirable  generosity,  it  is  reasonable  to  infer 
that  the  idea  of  payment  would  have  been 
unwelcome  to  his  mind. 

Even  so,  it  is  fair  to  add  that  the  best  of 
time  had  passed  for  Bums  ere  his  connexion 
with  Thomson  began.  Mi.sfortunes,  hardships, 
follies,  excesses  in  fact  and  sentiment,  success 
itself,  so  barren  of  lasting  profit  to  him  —  all 
these  had  done  some  part  of  their  work  ;  and 
already  his  way  of  life  was  falling  into  the  sere 
and  yellow  leaf.  Though  few,  the  years  had 
been  full  exceeflingly  ;  and  his  inspiration  was 
its  old  rapturous,  irresistible  self  no  longer. 
Moreover,  he  had  to  content  Thomson  as  well 
as  to  satisfy  himself ;  and  Thomson,  a  kind  of 
poetaster,  whose  taste  in  verse  was  merely 
academic,  persuaded  him  to  write  more  English 
than  was  good  for  him  ;  being  in  this  matter 
wholly  of  his  time,  he  could  find  nothing  to 
"  fire  his  vocal  rage  "  but  the  amatory  "  effu- 
sions "  of  one  of  the  least  lyrical  schools  in 
letters  ;  and  the  consequences  were  disastrous 
to  his  art.  The  Thomson  songs,  indeed,  some 
distinguished  and  delightful  exceptions  to  the 
contrary,  are  not  in  his  happier  vein.  They 
have  not  the  fresh  sweetness  and  the  unflagging 
spirit  of  his  Museum  numbers.  They  are  less 
distinctively  Scots  than  these,  for  one  thing; 
and  for  another,  they  are  often  vapid  in  senti- 
ment and  artificial  in  effect.  Now,  his  work 
for  the  Museum  consisted  largely  in  the  adap- 
tation of  old  rhymes  and  folk-songs  to  modem 
uses.  Some  he  arranged,  some  he  condensed, 
some  he  enlarged,  some  he  reconstructed  and 
rewrote.     Stray  snatches,  phrases,  lines,  thin 


echoes  from  a  vani.shed  past  —  nothing  came 
amiss  to  him,  nor  was  there  anything  he  could 
not  turn  to  good  account.  His  appreciation 
was  instant  and  inevitable,  his  touch  unerring. 
Under  his  hand  a  patchwork  of  catch-words 
became  a  living  song.  He  would  take  you  two 
fragments  of  different  epochs,  select  the  best 
from  each,  and  treat  the  matter  of  his  choice 
in  such  a  style  that  it  is  hard  to  know  where 
its  components  end  and  begin  :  so  that  nothing 
is  certain  about  his  result  except  that  here  is  a 
piece  of  art.  Or  he  would  capture  a  wandering 
old  refrain,  adju.st  it  to  his  own  conditions,  and 
so  renew  its  lyrical  interest  and  significance 
that  it  seems  to  live  its  true  life  for  the  first 
time  on  his  lips.  Here,  in  fact,  is  his  chief 
claim  to  perennial  acceptance.  He  passed  the 
folk-song  of  his  nation  through  the  mint  of  his 
mind,  and  he  reproduced  it  stamped  with  his 
image  and  lettered  with  his  superscription  :  so 
that  for  the  world  at  large  it  exists,  and  will 
go  on  existing,  not  as  he  foimd  but  as  he  left  it. 
Burns's  knowledge  of  the  older  minstrelsy  was 
unique  ;  he  was  saturate  with  its  tradition,  as  he 
was  absolute  master  of  its  emotions  and  effects ; 
no  such  artist  in  folk-song  as  he  (so  in  other 
words  Sir  Walter  said)  has  ever  worked  in  lit- 
erature. But  a  hundred  forgotten  singers  went 
to  the  making  of  his  achievement  and  himself. 
He  did  not  wholly  originate  those  master-qual- 
ities —  of  fresh  and  taking  simplicity,  of  vigour 
and  directness  and  happy  and  humorous  ease, 
which  have  come  to  be  regarded  as  distinctive 
of  his  verse  ;  for  all  these  things,  together  with 
much  of  the  thought,  the  romance,  and  the 
sentiment  for  which  we  read  and  love  him, 
were  included  in  the  estate  which  he  inherited 
from  his  nameless  forebears :  and  he  so  assimi- 
lated them  that  what  is  actually  those  fore- 
bears' legacy  to  him  has  come  to  be  regarded 
as  his  gift  to  them.  Those  forebears  aiding, 
he  stands  forth  as  the  sole  great  poet  of  the 
old  Scots  world ;  and  he  thus  is  national  as  no 
poet  has  ever  been,  and  as  no  poet  ever  wiU  or 
ever  can  be  again.  Thus,  too,  it  is  that,  being 
the  "  satirist  and  singer  of  a  parish  "  —  a  fact 
which   only   the  Common    Bum.site  could   be 


crazy  enough,  or  pigheaded  enough,  to  deny  — 

the  least  parochial  — 

the    most    broadly    and    genuinely    human  — 


he  is  at  the  same  time  the  least  parochial  — 


i| 


among  the  lyrists  of  his  race. 

[Many  of  the  songs  contributed  to  Johnson 
were  afterward  sent  to  Thomson,  but  in  the 
collection  which  follows,  Johnson's  Museum  is 
practically  the  authority  for  all  up  to  Wander- 
ing Willie.  That  and  the  rest  are  from  Thom- 
son's Scottish  Airs.] 


t 


BONIE   DUNDEE 


20I 


YOUNG   PEGGY 

Margaret,  daughter  of  Robert  Kennedy,  of 
Daljarroch,  Ayrshire,  and  niece  of  Mr.  Gavin 
Hamilton,  was  born  od  November,  1706 ;  fell 
in  love  with  (and  finally  succumbed  to)  Cap- 
tain, afterwards  Colonel,  Andiew  M'Doual 
("  Sculdudd'ry  M'Doual  "  of  the  second  Heron 
Ballad:  see  ante,  p.  166)  in  1784;  bore  him  a 
daughter  in  January,  1794 ;  raised  an  action 
for  (1)  declarator  of  marriage,  or  (2)  damages 
for  seduction;  and  died  in  February,  17Uo, 
before  the  case  was  decided.  Meanwhile, 
M'Doual,  who  denied  paternity  as  well  as  mar- 
riage, had  wedded  another  lady ;  but  in  1798 
the  Consistorial  Court  declared  against  him  on 
both  issues  ;  and  the  Court  of  Session,  having 
set  aside  its  judgment  as  regards  the  marriage, 
ordered  him  to  provide  for  his  child  in  the  sum 
of  £3000. 

Burns  often  met  Miss  Kennedy  at  Gavin 
Hamilton's.  His  song  was  enclosed  to  her  in 
an  undated  letter :  "  I  have  in  these  verses  at- 
tempted some  faint  sketches  of  your  portrait 
in  the  miembellished  simple  manner  of  descrip- 
tive truth."  This,  and  not  The  Banks  o'  Doon, 
{post,  p.  243),  which  it  is  usual,  but  erroneous, 
to  suppose  was  suggested  by  the  lady's  amour, 
must  have  been  the  song  "'  on  Miss  Peggy  Ken- 
nedy," which,  with  The  Lass  o'  Ballochniyle, 
the  '*  jury  of  literati  "  in  Edinburgh  "  found 
defamatory  libels  agaiust  the  fastidious  powers 
of  Poesy  and  Taste."  Forbidden  to  print  it 
(no  doubt  for  the  same  reason  as  he  was  forbid- 
den to  print  The  Lass  o'  Ballochmyle,  and  not 
because  it  is  not  better  than  nine  tenths  of  the 
Ramsay  songs,  of  which  it  is  an  imitation)  in 
the  Edinburgh  Edition,  the  writer  sent  it  to 
Johnson,  where  it  appears  as  alternative  words 
to  the  tune,  Loch  Errochside. 


Young  Peggy  blooms  our  boniest  lass: 

Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 
The  rosy  dawu  the  springing  grass 

With  early  gems  adorning; 
Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 

That  gild  the  passing  shower, 
And  glitter  o'er  the  crystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  fresh'ning  flower. 


Her  lips,  more  than  the  cherries  bright  - 
A  richer  dye  has  graced  them  — 

They  charm  the  admiring  gazer's  sight, 
And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them. 

Her  smile  is  as  the  evening  mild, 


When  feather'd  pairs  are  courting, 
And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild, 
In  playful  bands  disporting. 


Were  Fortune  lovely  Peggy's  foe. 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her: 
As  blooming  Spring  unbends  the  brow 

Of  surl}^  savage  Winter. 
Detraction's  eye  no  aim  can  gain 

Her  winning  powers  to  lessen, 
And  fretful  Envy  grins  in  vain 

The  poison'd  tooth  to  fasten. 


Ye  Pow'rs  of  Honour,  Love,  and  Truth, 

From  ev'ry  ill  defend  her  ! 
Inspire  the  highly-favour'd  youth 

The  destinies  intend  her  ! 
Still  fan  tlie  sweet  connubial  flame 

Responsive  in  each  bosom. 
And  bless  the  dear  paternal  name 

With  many  a  filial  blossom  ! 


BONIE    DUNDEE 

A  fragment  of  folk-ballad,  with  modifica- 
tions and  additions.  Cromek  states  that  Burns 
sent  the  draft  of  his  version  to  Cleghorn  with 
the  following  note  :  "  Dear  Cleghorn,  —  You 
will  see  by  the  above  that  I  have  added  a 
stanza  to  Bonny  Dundee.  If  you  think  it  will 
do  you  may  set  it  agoing  upon  a  ten-stringed 
instrument  and  on  the  psaltery.  —  R.  B.'' 


"  O,  WHAR  gat  ye  that  hauver-meal  ban- 
nock ?  " 
"  O  silly  blind  body,  O,  dinna  ye  see  ? 
I  gat  it  frae  a  young,  brisk  sodger  laddie 
Between  Saint  Johnston  and  bonie  Dun- 
dee. 
O,  gin  I  saw  the  laddie  that  gae  me  't  ! 

Aft  has  he  doudl'd  me  up  on  his  knee: 
May  Heaven  protect  my  bonie  Scots  laddie. 
And  send  him  hame  to   his  babie  and 
me  ! 

II 

"  My  blessin's  upon  thy  sweet,  wee  lippie  ! 

My  blessin's  upon  thy  bonie  e'e  brie  ! 
Thy  smiles  are  sae  like  my  blythe  sodger 
laddie, 

Thou  's  ay  the  dearer  and  dearer  to  me  ! 


202 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


But  I  '11  big  a  bow'r  on  yon  bonie  banks, 
Whare  Tay  rins  wimplin  by  sae  clear; 

And  I  '11  deed  thee  in  the  tartan  sae  fine, 
And  mak  thee  a  man   like  thy  daddie 
dear." 


TO   THE   WEAVER'S  GIN   YE    GO 

"  The  chorus  of  thLs  song  is  old,  the  rest  Ls 
mine.  Here  once  for  all  let  me  apologise  for 
many  sLUy  compositions  of  mine  in  this  work. 
Many  beautiful  airs  wanted  words,  and  in  the 
hiury  of  other  avocations,  if  I  could  string  a 
parcel  of  rhymes  together,  anything  nearly 
tolerable,  I  was  fain  to  let  them  pass.  He 
must  be  an  excellent  poet  indeed  whose  every 
performance  is  excellent."     (R.  B.) 

CHORUS 

To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go,  fair  maids, 

To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go, 
I  rede  you  right,  gang  ne'er  at  night. 

To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go. 


My  heart  was  ance  as  blythe  and  free 
As  simmer  days  were  lang; 

But  a  bonie,  westlin  weaver  lad 
Has  gart  me  change  my  sang. 


My  mither  sent  me  to  the  town, 
To  warp  a  plaiden  wab; 

But  the  weary,  weary  warpin  o't 
Has  gart  me  sigh  and  sab. 


A  bonie,  westlin  weaver  lad 
Sat  working  at  his  loom; 

He  took  my  heart,  as  wi'  a  net, 
In  every  knot  and  thrum. 


I  sat  beside  my  warpin-wheel, 
And  ay  I  ca'd  it  roun'; 

And  every  shot  and  every  knock, 
My  heart  it  gae  a  stoun. 


The  moon  was  sinking  in  the  west 
Wi'  visage  pale  and  wan. 

As  my  bonie,  westlin  weaver  lad 
Convoy'd  me  thro'  the  glen. 


But  what  was  said,  or  what  was  done 

Shame  fa'  me  gin  I  tell; 
But  O  !  I  fear  the  kintra  soon 

Will  ken  as  weel  's  mysel  ! 

CHORUS 
To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go,  fair  maids, 

To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go, 
I  rede  you  right,  gang  ne'er  at  night, 

To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go. 


O,   WHISTLE   AN'   I  'LL   COME 
TO   YE,   MY    LAD 

The  song  has  hitherto  ^  been  held  pure  Bums. 
But  he  found  his  chorus  in  the  Herd  MS.  :  — 

"  Whistle  and  I  '11  cum  to  ye,  my  lad  1 
Whistle  and  I  '11  cum  to  ye,  my  lad  ! 
Gin  father  and  mither  and  a'  should  gae  mad. 
Whistle  and  I  '11  cum  to  ye,  my  lad  !  " 

CHORUS 

O,  whistle  an'  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ! 
O,  whistle  an'  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ! 
Tho'  father  an'  mother  an'  a'  should  gae 

mad, 
O,  whistle  an'  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ! 


But  warily  tent  when  ye  come  to  court  me. 
And  come  nae  unless  the  back-yett  be  a-jee; 
Syne  up  the  back-style,  and  let  naebody  see, 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin  to  me. 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin  to  me  ! 


At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene'er  ye  meet  me. 
Gang  by  me  as  tho'  that  ye  car'd  na  a  flie ; 
But  steal  me  a  blink  o'  your  bonie  black  e'e. 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin  to  me. 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin  to  me  ! 


Ay  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me. 
And  whyles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a  wee; 
But  court  na  anither  tho'  jokin  ye  be, 
For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me. 
For  fear  that  she  wjde  your  fancy  frae  me  ? 

CHORUS 
O,  whistle  an'  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ! 
O,  whistle  an'  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ! 
1  That  is,  by  previous  editors. 


MTHERSON'S    FAREWELL 


203 


Tho'  father  an'  mother  an'  a'  should  gae 

mad, 
O,  whistle  an'  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ! 


I'M    O'ER 


YOUNG 
YET 


TO     MARRY 


"  The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old  ;  the  rest  of 
it,  such  as  it  is,  is  mine."     (R.  B.) 


I  'm  o'er  young,  I  'm  o'er  young, 
I  'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet ! 

I  'm  o'er  young,  't  wad  be  a  sin 
To  tak  me  frae  my  mammie  yet. 


I  AM  my  mammie's  ae  bairn, 
Wi'  unco  folk  I  weary.  Sir, 

And  lying  in  a  man's  bed, 

I  'm  fley'd  it  make  me  eerie,  Sir. 


Hallowmass  is  come  and  gane. 

The  nights  are  lang  in  winter.  Sir, 

And  you  an'  I  in  ae  bed  -^ 

In  trowth,  I  dare  na  venture,  Sir  ! 


Fu'  loud  and  shrill  the  frosty  wind 
Blaws  thro'  the  leafless  timmer.  Sir, 

But  if  ye  come  this  gate  again, 
I  '11  aulder  be  gin  simmer,  Sir. 

CHORUS 

I  'm  o'er  young,  I  'm  o'er  young, 
I  'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet ! 

I  'm  o'er  young,  't  wad  be  a  sin 
To  tak  me  frae  my  mammie  yet. 


THE   BIRKS    OF   ABERFELDIE 

"  I  composed  these  stanzas  standing  under 
the  Falls  of  Moness  at  or  near  Aberfeldy." 
(R.  B.) 

CHORUS 

Bonie  lassie,  will  ye  go. 
Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go  ? 
Bonie  lassie,  will  j-e  go 

To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldie  ? 


Xow  simmer  blinks  on  flow'ry  braes. 
And  o'er  the  crystal  streamlets  plays. 
Come,  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldie  ! 


The  little  birdies  blythely  sing. 
While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldie. 


The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa's. 
The  foaming  stream,  deep-roaring,  fa's 
O'er  hung  with  fragrant-spreading  shaws, 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldie. 


The  hoary  clifPs  are  crown'd  wi'  flowers, 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 
And,  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldie. 


Let  Fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee. 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me, 
Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldie. 


Bonie  lassie,  will  ye  go, 
Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go  ? 
Bonie  lassie,  \vill  ye  go 

To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldie  ? 


MTHERSON'S    FAREWELL 

"  M'Pherson,  a  daring  robber  in  the  begin- 
ning of  this  century,  was  condemned  to  be 
hanged  at  the  assizes  of  Inverness.  He  is  said, 
when  under  sentence  of  death,  to  have  com- 
posed  this  tune,  which  he  calls  his  own  Lament 
or  Farewell."     (R.  B.) 

The  reputed  son  of  a  gipsy,  James  M'Pher- 
son, a  cateran  of  notable  strength  and  prowess, 
was  apprehended  for  robbery  by  the  Laird  of 
Braco,  at  Keith  Market ;  and,  being  haled  be- 
fore the  Sheriil  of  Banff  on  1st  November, 
1700,  was  hanged  at  the  Cross  of  Banff  on  the 
10th.  The  tradition  that  he  played  the  Lament 
on  his  violin  on  the  way  to  the  tree,  or  at  the 
foot   of  it,  is   absurd.     It  has,  further,  been 


204 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL  MUSEUM' 


pointed  out  that  his  legend  may  derive  from  an 
Irish  story  :  of  a  tune  called  M'Pherson,  with 
which  its  composer  is  said  to  have  played  hmi- 
self  to  the  gallows  on  the  pipes. 

There  is  a  set  in  Herd  (1769),  hut  it  is 
plainly  a  corruption  of  the  old  hroadside  — 
The  Last   Words  of  James  Mackpherson,  Mur- 

derei (which  seems  in  part  an  imitation  of 

Captain  Johnston'' s  Farewell :  he  was  hanged 
at  Tyburn  in  1690 :  in  the  Pepys  Collection, 
V.  528),  and  opens  thus  :  — 

"I  spent  my  time  in  rioting, 
Debauched  my  healtii  and  strength; 
I  pillaged,  plundered,  murdered, 
But  now,  alas  !  at  length 
I  'm  brought  to  punishment  condign; 
Pale  deatli  draws  near  to  me: 
The  end  I  ever  did  project. 
To  hang  upon  a  tree." 

The  most  notable  lines,  however,  are  the  four 
last:  — 

"  Then  wantonly  and  rantingly 
I  am  resolved  to  die  ; 
And  with  undaunted  courage  I 
Shall  mount  this  fatal  tree  :  "  — 

which  are  the  germ  of  Bums's  refrain.  But 
Burns,  while  preser^dng  throughout  the  spirit 
of  his  original  has  expressed  it  in  the  noblest 
terms. 

CHORUS 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he, 
He  play'd  a  spring,  and  danc'd.  it  round 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 


Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch's  destinie  ! 
M'Pherson's  time  will  not  be  long 

On  yonder  gallows-tree. 


O,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I  've  dar'd  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yet  again  ! 


Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands. 
And  bring  to  me  my  sword, 

And  there  's  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland 
But  I  '11  brave  him  at  a  word. 


I  've  liv'd  a  life  of  start  and  strife ; 
I  die  by  treacherie: 


It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart, 
And  not  avenged  be. 


Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 
May  coward  shame  distain  his  name. 

The  wretch  that  dare  not  die  ! 

CHORUS 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he. 
He  play'd  a  spring,  and  danc'd  it  round 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 


MY    HIGHLAND    LASSIE,  O 

"  This  was  a  composition  of  mine  in  very 
early  life,  before  I  was  known  at  all  in  the 
world.  My  '  Highland  Lassie  '  was  a  warm- 
hearted, charming  young  creature  as  ever 
blessed  a  man  with  generous  love.  After  a 
pretty  long  tract  of  the  most  ardent  recij)ro- 
cal  attachment  we  met  by  appointment  on 
the  second  Sunday  of  May,  in  a  sequestered 
spot  by  the  Banks  of  Ayr,  where  we  spent 
the  day  in  taking  farewell,  before  she  should 
embark  for  the  West  Highlands  to  arrange 
matters  for  our  projected  change  of  life.  At 
the  close  of  the  Autiunn  following  she  crossed 
the  sea  to  meet  me  at  Greenock,  where  she 
had  scarce  landed  when  she  was  seized  with 
a  malignant  fever,  which  hurried  ray  dear  girl 
to  the  grave  in  a  few  days,  before  I  could  even 
hear  of  her  illness."     (R.  B.) 

The  "Highland  Lassie"  was  Mary  Camp- 
bell, daughter  of  one  Archibald  Campbell,  a 
Clyde  sailor.  The  year  of  her  birth  is  uncer- 
tain ;  its  place  is  not  beyond  dispute  ;  the  date 
of  her  death  is  matter  of  debate  ;  its  exact 
circumstances  are  not  authenticated ;  there  is 
room  for  conjecture  as  to  the  place  of  her  bur- 
ial ;  little  or  no  independent  te.stimony  exists  as 
to  her  person  and  character  —  unless  she  be 
identified  with  a  certain  Mary  Campbell  of  in- 
different repute  ;  there  is  scarce  material  for 
the  barest  outlines  of  her  biography. 

A  part  of  My  Highland  Lassie,  O  is  reminis- 
cent of  the  chorus  of  Ramsay's  My  Nannie  O, 
which  traces  back  to  a  blackletter  in  the  Pepys 
Collection  [with  the  following  chorus]  :  — 


"  For  Katy,  Katy,  Katy  O, 
The  love  I  bear  to  Katy  O  : 
All  the  world  shall  never  know 
The  love  I  bear  to  Katy  O." 


II 


STRATHALLAN'S   LAMENT 


Another  ballad,  The  Scotch  Wooing  of  Willy 
and  Nanie,  has  the  same  chorus,  with  "  Nanie  " 
for  "Katy,"  and  with  this  one  Burns  was  prob- 
ably as  well  acquainted  as  Ramsay  himself. 
The  old  song.  Highland  Lassie,  suggested  to 
Burns  scarce  more  than  his  title  ;  but  it  faintly 
resembles  The  Highland  Queen. 

CHORUS 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 
Aboon  the  plain  sae  rasliy,  O, 
I  set  me  down  wi'  right  guid  will 
To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O  ! 


Nae  gentle  dames,  tho'  ne'er  sae  fair, 
Shall  ever  be  my  Muse's  care: 
Their  titles  a'  are  empty  show  — 
Gie  me  my  Highland  lassie,  O  ! 


O,  were  yon  hills  and  vallies  mine, 
Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine. 
The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I  bear  my  Highland  lassie,  O  ! 


But  fickle  Fortune  frowns  on  me, 
And  I  maun  cross  the  raging  sea  ; 
But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow 
I  '11  love  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 


Altho'  thro'  foreign  climes  I  range, 
I  know  her  heart  will  never  change  ; 
For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour's  glow. 
My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  O. 


For  her  I  '11  dare  the  billows'  roar, 
For  her  I  '11  trace  a  distant  shore, 
That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  tlirow 
Around  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 


She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand, 
My  secret  troth  and  honour's  band  ! 
Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 
I  'ra  thine,  my  Highland  lassie,  O  ! 

CHORUS 

Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O  ! 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rashy,  O  ! 
To  other  lands  I  now  must  go 
To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 


THO'    CRUEL   FATE 

Tho'  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part 

Far  as  the  pole  and  line. 
Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 

Should  tenderly  entwine. 
Tho'  mountains  rise,  and  deserts  howl. 

And  oceans  roar  between. 
Yet  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


STAY,   MY   CHARMER 


Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 

Cruel,  cruel  to  deceive  me  ! 

Well  you  know  how  much  you  grieve  me ! 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 


By  my  love  so  ill-requited, 

By  the  faith  you  fondly  plighted. 

By  the  pangs  of  lovers  slighted, 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so  ! 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so  ! 


STRATHALLAN'S    LAMENT 

"  This  air  is  the  composition  of  the  worthiest 
and  best-hearted  man  living,  Allan  Masterton, 
schoolmaster  in  Edinburgh.  As  he  and  I  were 
both  sprouts  of  Jacobitism  we  agreed  to  dedi- 
cate our  words  and  air  to  the  cause.  But  to 
tell  the  matter  of  fact ;  except  when  my  pas- 
sions were  heated  by  some  accidental  cause, 
my  Jacobitism  was  merely  by  way  of  '  vive  la 
bagatelle:  "     (R.  B). 

The  Strathalian  of  the  Lament  was  James 
Drnmmond,  —  eldest  son  of  William.  4th  Vis- 
count Strathalian,  killed  at  Culloden,  14th 
April,  1746,  —  who  was  included  in  the  Act  of 
Attainder,  4th  June  ;  and,  after  staying  for 
some  time  in  hiding,  escaped  to  France,  where 
he  died,  27th  June,  176.^,  at  Sens  in  Cham- 
pagne.    The  titles  were  restored  in  1824. 


Thickest  night,  surround  my  dwelling ! 

Howling  tempests,  o'er  me  rave  ! 
Turbid  torrents  wintry-swelling. 

Roaring  by  my  lonely  cave  ! 


2o6  SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


Crystal  streamlets  gently  flowing, 
Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 

Western  breezes  softly  blowing, 
Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 


In  the  cause  of  Right  engaged. 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 
Honour's  war  we  strongly  wag^d. 

But  the  heavens  deny'd  success. 
Ruin's  wheel  has  driven  o'er  us: 

Not  a  hope  that  dare  attend. 
The  wide  world  is  all  before  us, 

But  a  world  without  a  friend. 


MY    HOGG  IE 

"  Dr.  Walker,  who  was  miuister  in  Moffat  in 
1772,  and  is  now  (1791)  Professor  of  Natural 
History  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  told 
the  following  anecdote  concerning  this  air.  He 
said  that  some  gentlemen  riding  a  few  years 
ago  through  Liddesdale,  stopped  at  a  hamlet 
consisting  of  a  few  houses,  called  Mosspaul  (in 
Ewesdale) ;  when  they  were  struck  with  this 
tune,  wliich  an  old  woman,  spinning  on  a  rock 
at  her  door,  was  singing.  All  she  could  tell 
concerning  it  was,  that  she  was  taught  it  when 
a  child,  and  it  was  called  'What  wUl  I  do 
gin  my  Hoggie  die  ?  "  No  person,  except  a 
few  females  at  Mosspaul,  knew  this  fine  old 
tune,  which  in  all  prolaability  would  have  been 
lost  had  not  one  of  the  gentlemen  Avho  hap- 
pened to  have  a  flute  with  him  taken  it  down." 
(R.  B.) 


What  will  I  do  gin  my  hoggie  die  ? 

My  joy,  my  pride,  my  hoggie  ! 
My  only  beast,  I  had  nae  mae, 

And  vow  but  I  was  vogie  ! 
The  lee-lang  night  we  watched  the  fauld, 

Me  and  my  faithfu'  doggie; 
We  heard  nocht  but  the  roaring  linn 

Amang  the  braes  sae  scroggie. 


But  the  houlet  cry'd  frae  the  castle  wa', 

The  blitter  frae  the  boggie, 
The  tod  reply'd  upon  the  hill: 

I  trembled  for  my  hoggie. 
When  day  did  daw,  and  cocks  did  craw, 

The  morning  it  was  foggie. 
An  unco  tyke  lap  o'er  the  dyke. 

And  maist  has  kill'd  my  hoggie  ! 


JUMPIN   JOHN 


CHORUS 


The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin  John 
Beguil'd  the  bonie  lassie  ! 

The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin  John 
Beguil'd  the  bonie  lassie  ! 


Her  daddie  forbad,  her  minnie  forbad; 

Forbidden  she  wadna  be: 
She  wadna  trow't,  the  browst  she  brew'd 

Wad  taste  sae  bitterlie  ! 


A  cow  and  a  cauf,  a  yowe  and  a  hauf, 
And  thretty  guid  shillins  and  three: 

A  vera  guid  tocher  !  a  cotter-man's  dochter, 
The  lass  with  the  bonie  black  e'e  ! 

CHORUS 

The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin  John 

Beguil'd  the  bonnie  lassie  ! 
The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin  John 

Beguil'd  the  bonie  lassie  ! 


UP    IN   THE   MORNING    EARLY 

"  The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old ;  the  two 
stanzas  are  mine."     (R.  B.) 

CHORUS 

Up  in  the  morning 's  no  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ! 
When  a'  the  hills  are  covered  wi'  snaw, 

I  'm  sure  it 's  winter  fairly  ! 


Cauld  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west, 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly, 
Sae  loud  and  shrill 's  I  hear  the  blast  — 

I  'm  sure  it 's  winter  fairly  ! 

II 

The  birds  sit  chittering  in  the  thorn, 
A'  day  they  fare  but  sparely; 

And  lang 's  the  night  frae  e'en  to  morn  — 
I  'm  sure  it 's  winter  fairly. 

CHORUS 

Up  in  the  morning  's  no  for  me. 
Up  in  the  morning  early  ! 


DUNCAN   DAVISON 


207 


When  a'  the  hills  are  cover'd  wi'  snaw, 
I  'm  sure  it 's  winter  fairly  ! 


'    THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROVER 

Intended  to  commemorate  his  visit  to  Castle 
Gordon  in  1787.  and  made,  seemingly,  after 
the  discovery  that  Castle  Gordon  (ante,  p.  121) 
did  not  fit  the  tune  Morag.  To  the  same  tune 
he  also  wrote,  O,  Wat  ye  wha  that  Lo^es  Me 
{post,  p.  284).  The  "  rover  "  was  probahly  the 
Young  Chevalier. 

I 

Loud  blaw  tbe  frosty  breezes, 

The  suaws  the  mountains  cover. 
Like  winter  on  me  seizes, 

Since  my  young  Highland  rover 

Far  wanders  nations  over. 
Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  stray, 

May  Heaven  be  his  warden  ! 
Return  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey 

And  bonie  Castle  Gordon  ! 


The  trees,  now  naked  groaning, 
Shall  soon  wi'  leaves  be  hinging, 

The  birdies,  dowie  moaning, 
Shall  a'  be  blythely  singing. 
And  every  flower  be  springing: 

Sae  I  '11  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day, 
When  (by  his  mighty  Warden) 

My  youth  's  return'd  to  fair  Strathspey 
And  bonie  Castle  Gordon. 


THE    DUSTY    MILLER 

Stenhouse  says  vaguely  that  the  verses  '"  are 
a  fragment  of  the  old  ballad  with  a  few  verbal 
alterations  by  Burns ; "  and  Sharpe  gives  a 
version  of  the  "  original "  without  saying  where 
he  got  it.  It  differs  comparatively  little  from 
the  fragment  (Herd  MS.)  upon  which  Burns 
based  his  song  :  — 

"  O,  the  Dusty  MUler,  O,  the  Dusty  Miller  ! 
Dusty  was  his  coat,  Dusty  was  his  cuUour, 
Dusty  was  the  kiss  I  got  f  rae  the  Miller  1 
O,  the  Dusty  Miller  with  the  dusty  coat. 
He  will  spend  a  shilling  ere  he  win  a  groat. 
O,  the  Dusty  MiUer." 

I 

Hey  the  dusty  miller 
And  his  dusty  coat ! 


He  will  spend  a  shilling 

Or  he  win  a  groat. 
Dusty  was  the  coat. 

Dusty  was  tbe  colour, 
Dusty  was  the  kiss 

That  I  gat  frae  the  mUIer  ! 


Hey  tbe  dusty  miller 

And  bis  dusty  sack  ! 
Leeze  me  on  the  calling 

Fills  the  dusty  peek  ! 
Fills  the  dusty  peck, 

Brings  the  dusty  siller  ! 
I  wad  gie  my  coatie 

For  the  dusty  miller  ! 


I    DREAM'D    I    LAY 

"  These  two  stanzas  I  composed  when  I  was 
seventeen ;  they  are  among  the  oldest  of  my 
printed  pieces."     (R.  B.) 


I  DREAM 'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were  spring- 
ing 

Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam, 
List'ning  to  the  wild  birds  singing. 

By  a  falling  crystal  stream; 
Straight  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring, 

Thro'  tbe  woods  tbe  whirlwinds  rave, 
Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring 

O'er  the  swelling,  drumlie  wave. 


Such  was  my  life's  deceitful  morning, 

Such  the  pleasures  I  enjoy'd  ! 
But  lang  or  noon  loud  tempests,  storming, 

A'  my  flowery  bliss  destroy'd. 
Tho'  fickle  Fortune  has  deceiv'd  me 

(She   promis'd  fair,  and  perform'd  but 
ill), 
Of  monie  a  joy  and  hope  bereav'd  me, 

I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  stUl. 


DUNCAN    DAVISON 

Stenhouse  affirms  that  this  song  is  by  Bums, 
although  he  did  not  choose  to  avow  it ;  also 
that  he  (Stenhouse)  had  '"  recovered  his 
(Btums's)    original    manuscript,    which   is   the 


208 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


same  as  that  inserted  in  the  Museum  No 
doubt  IStenhouse  is  right;  but  Burns  did  but 
act  according  to  his  wont  in  signing  Z,  tor 
not  only  was  his  Duncan  Davison  suggested  by 
a  sono- with  the  same  title  and  something  oi  the 
same  motive  preserved  in  The  Merry  Muses - 
from  which  his  first,  second,  and  fourth  hnes 
are  lifted  bodily  —  but  it  is,  as  regards  his 
last  stanza  at  least,  a  thing  of  shreds  and 
patches;  while  the  last  half  of  this  said 
stanza,  containing  a  very  irrelevant  moral,  is 
merely  "conveyed"  from  a  fragment,  here 
first  printed,  in  the  Herd  MS. :  — 

"  I  can  drink  and  no  be  drunk, 
I  can  fight  and  no  be  slain  ; 
I  can  kiss  a  bonie  lass 
And  ay  be  welcome  back  again. 


There  was  a  lass,  they  ca'd  her  Meg, 

Aud  she  held  o'er  the  moors  to  spin; 
There  was  a  lad  that  f ollow'd  her, 

They  ca'd  him  Duucan  Davison. 
The  moor  was  dreigh,  and  Meg  was  skeigh, 

Her  favour  Duncan  could  na  win; 
For  wi'  the  rock  she  wad  him  knock, 

And  ay  she  shook  the  temper-pin. 

II 
As  o'er  the  moor  they  lightly  foor, 

A  burn  was  clear,  a  glen  was  green; 
Upon  the  banks  they  eas'd  their  shauks, 

And  ay  she  set  the  wheel  between: 
But  Duncan  swoor  a  haly  aith, 

That  Meg  should  be  a  bride  the  morn; 
Then  Meg  took  up  her  spinniu-graith, 

And  flang  them  a'  out  o'er  the  burn. 

Ill 
We  will  big  a  wee,  wee  house, 

And  we  will  live  like  king  and  queen, 
Sae  blythe  and  merry 's  we  will  be. 

When  ye  set  by  the  wheel  at  e  en  ! 
A  man  may  drink,  and  no  be  drunk; 

A  man  may  fight,  and  no  be  slam; 
A  man  may  kiss  a  bonie  lass. 

And  ay  be  welcome  back  again  ! 


THENIEL    MENZIES'    BONIE 
MARY 

CHORUS 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonie  Mary, 
Theniel  Menzies'  bonie  Mary, 


Charlie  Grigor  tint  his  plaidie, 
Kissin  Theniel' s  bonie  Mary  ! 


In  comin  by  the  brig  o'  Dye, 
At  Darlet  we  a  blink  did  tarry; 

As  day  was  dawin  in  the  sky, 

We  drank  a  health  to  bonie  Mary. 

II 
Her  sen  sae  bright,  her  brow  sae  white, 

Her  hafEet  locks  as  brown  's  a  berry, 
And  ay  they  dimpl't  wi'  a  smile. 

The  rosy  cheeks  o'  bonie  Mary. 


We  lap  an'  danc'd  the  lee-lang  day, 
Till  piper-lads  were  wae  and  weary; 

But  Charlie  gat  the  spring  to  pay, 
For  kissin  Theuiel's  bonie  Mary. 

CHORUS 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonie  Mary, 
Theniel  Menzies'  bonie  Mary, 
Charlie  Grigor  tint  his  plaidie, 
Kissin  Theniel's  bonie  Mary  ! 


LADY   ONLIE,  HONEST  LUCKY 

CHORUS 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  lucky, 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o'  Bucky: 
I  wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale. 

The  best  on  a'  the  shore  o'  Bucky  ! 

I 

A'  THE  lads  o'  Thorniebank, 

When  they  gae  to  the  shore  o'  Bucky, 
They  'U  step  in  an'  tak  a  pint 

Wi'  Lady  Onlie,  honest  lucky. 

II 
Her  house  sae  bien,  her  curch  sae  clean  — 

I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chuckie 
And  cheery  blinks  the  ingle-gleede 

O'  Ladie  Onlie,  honest  lucky  ! 

CHORUS 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  lucky, 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o'  Bucky: 
I  wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale. 

The  best  on  a'  the  shore  o'  Bucky  ! 


i 


DUNCAN   GRAY 


209 


THE   BANKS    OF   THE    DEVON 

"  These  verses  were  composed  on  a  cliarming 
girl,  a  Miss  Charlotte  Hamilton,  who  is  now 
married  to  James  M'Kittrick  Adaii',  Esqr., 
physician.  IShe  is  sister  to  my  worthy  friend 
Gavin  Hamilton  of  Mauehline,  and  was  born 
on  the  banks  of  Ayr,  but  was,  at  the  time  I 
wrote  these  lines,  residing  at  Harvieston  in 
Clackmannanshire,  on  the  romantic  banks  of 
the  little  river  Devon.  I  fii-st  heard  the  air 
from  a  lady  in  Inverness,  and  got  the  notes 
taken  down  for  the  work."     (R.  B.) 

Bums  visited  Gavin  Hamilton's  mother  and 
her  family  at  Harvieston  on  Monday,  27th 
August,  1787,  and  wrote  to  Hamilton  on  the 
2Sth  :  "Of  Charlotte  I  cannot  speak  in  com- 
mon terms  of  admiration  ;  she  is  not  only  beau- 
tiful but  lovely.  Her  form  is  elegant ;  her 
features  not  regular,  but  they  have  the  smile  of 
sweetness  and  the  settled  complacency  of  good- 
nature in  the  highest  degree  ;  and  her  com- 
plexion, now  that  she  has  happily  recovered 
her  wonted  health,  is  equal  to  Miss  Burnet's." 
In  the  October  following  Burns  stopped  at  Har- 
vieston again,  and  introduced  that  Dr.  Adair 
whom  Miss  Hamilton  married,  16th  November, 
1789.  She  died  a  widow  in  1S06.  On  2d  Sep- 
tember, 1787,  Burns  sent  the  first  draft  of  his 
song  to  her  friend,  Miss  Chalmers :  "  I  am  de- 
termined to  pay  Charlotte  a  poetic  compliment 
in  the  second  part  of  the  Museum,  if  1  could 
hit  on  some  glorious  Scotch  air.  You  will  see 
a  small  attempt  on  a  shred  of  paper  enclosed." 

The  "  small  attempt "  is  a  poor  enough  per- 
formance, when  all  is  said  —  not  much  above 
the  stall  level :  but  it  appears  to  be  pure 
Bums.  [The  tune  was  a  Highland  air,  entitled 
Phannerach  dhon  na  chri,  or  The  Pretty  Milk- 
maid. 

Charlotte  Hamilton  may  also  have  been  the 
heroine  of  the  song  Fairest  Maid  on  Devon 
Banks.  (See/»osf,  p.  288).  For  Gavin  Hamil- 
ton see  ante,  p.  41,  Prefatory  Note  to  A  Dedi- 
cation.^ 

I 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  wind- 
ing Devon, 
With  green  spreading  bushes  and  flow'rs 
blooming  fair  ! 
But  the  boniest  flow'r  on  the  banks  of  the 
Devon 
Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of 
the  Ayr. 
Mild  be  the  sun  on   this   sweet   blushing 
flower, 
In  the  gay  rosy  morn,  as  it  bathes  in  the 
dew ! 


And   gentle   the   fall   of   the    soft   vernal 
shower, 
That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to 
renew  ! 


O,    spare    the    dear    blossom,    ye    orient 
breezes, 
With  chill,  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the 
dawn  ! 
And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that 
seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  or 
lawn  ! 
Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies, 
And  England    triumphant    display   her 
proud  rose  ! 
A  fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  val- 
lies, 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meander* 
ing  flows. 


DUNCAN    GRAY 


Weary  fa'  you,  Duncan  Gray  ! 

(Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't  !) 
Wae  gae  by  you,  Duncan  Gray  ! 

(Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't  !) 
When  a'  the  lave  gae  to  tlaeir  play. 
Then  I  maun  sit  the  lee-lang  day, 
And  jeeg  the  cradle  wi'  my  tae, 

And  a'  for  the  girdin  o't ! 


Bonie  was  the  Lammas  moon 

(Ha,  ha,  tlie  girdin  o't  !) 
Glowrin  a'  the  hills  aboon 

(Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't !) 
The  girdin  brak,  the  beast  cam  down, 
I  tint  my  curch  and  baith  my  shoon, 
And,  Duncan,  ye  're  an  unco  loun  — 

Wae  on  the  bad  ffirdin  o't ! 


But  Duncan,  gin  ye  '11  keep  your  aith 

(Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't  !), 
I  'se  bless  you  wi'  my  hindmost  breath 

(Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't  !). 
Duncan,  gin  ye  '11  keep  your  aith. 
The  beast  again  can  bear  us  baith, 
And  auld  Mess  John  will  mend  the  skaith 

And  clout  the  bad  girdin  o't. 


2IO  SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL  MUSEUM 


THE    PLOUGHMAN 

CHORUS 

Then  up  wi't  a',  my  ploughman  lad, 
And  hey,  my  merry  ploughman  ! 

Of  a'  the  trades  that  I  do  ken, 
Commend  me  to  the  ploughman  ! 


The  ploughman,  he  's  a  bonie  lad, 
His  mind  is  ever  true,  jo  ! 

His  garters  knit  below  his  knee. 
His  bonnet  it  is  blue,  jo. 


I  hae  been  east,  I  hae  been  west, 
I  hae  been  at  St.  Johnston  ; 

The  boniest  sight  that  e'er  I  saw 
Was  the  ploughman  laddie  dancin. 

Ill 
Snaw-white  stockings  on  his  legs 

And  siller  buckles  glancin, 
A  guid  blue  bounet  on  his  head. 

And  O,  but  he  was  handsome  ! 


Commend  me  to  the  barn-yard 

And  the  corn  mou,  man  ! 
I  never  got  my  coggie  fou 

Till  I  met  wi'  the  ploughman. 

CHORUS 
Then  up  wi't  a',  my  ploughman  lad. 

And  hey,  my  merry  ploughman  ! 
Of  a'  the  trades  that  I  do  ken, 

Commend  me  to  the  ploughman  ! 


LANDLADY,  COUNT  THE  LAWIN 

Set  to  the  tune,  Hey  Tutti  Taiti.  "  I  have 
met  the  tradition  universally  over  Scotland, 
and  particularly  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
scene,  that  this  air  was  Robert  Brace's  march 
to  Bannockbum."  (R.  B.)  He  afterwards 
wrote  Scots  Wha  Hae  (post,  p.   285)   to  it. 

The  present  song  is  not  an  original,  but  a 
patchwork  of  assorted  scraps,  with  some  few 
verbal  changes. 

CHORUS 

Hey  tutti,  taiti. 
How  tutti,  taiti, 


Hey  tutti,  taiti, 
Wha 's  fou  now  ? 


Landlady,  count  the  lawin, 

The  day  is  near  the  da  win; 

Ye  're  a'  blind  drunk,  boys, 

And  I  'm  but  jolly  fou. 


Cog,  an  ye  were  ay  fou. 
Cog,  an  ye  were  ay  fou, 
I  wad  sit  and  sing  to  you, 
If  ye  were  ay  fou  ! 


Weel  may  ye  a'  be  ! 
Ill  may  ye  never  see  ! 
God  bless  the  king 
And  the  companie  ! 

CHORUS 

Hey  tutti,  taiti, 
How  tutti,  taiti, 
Hey  tutti,  taiti, 
Wha 's  fou  now  ? 


RAVING    WINDS    AROUND 
BLOWING 


HER 


'■  I  composed  these  verses  on  Miss  Isabella 
Macleod  of  Rasa,  alluding  to  her  feelings  on 
the  death  of  her  sister,  and  the  still  more 
melancholy  death  of  her  sister's  husband,  the 
late  Earl  of  Loudoun,  who  shot  himself  out 
of  sheer  heart-break  at  some  mortifications  he 
suffered  owing  to  the  deranged  state  of  his 
finances."     (R-  B.) 

For  Miss  Isabella  M'Leod  see  Prefatory 
Note  to  0?J  the  Death  of  John  M'Leod,  Esq., 
{ante,  p.  96),  and  To  Miss  Isabella  M'Leod, 
[ante,  p.  137). 


Ravtn'G  winds  around  her  blowing, 
Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strewing. 
By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 
Isabella  stray'd  deploring  :  — 
"  Farewell  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure  ! 
Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow  — 
Cheerless   night  that    knows    no    mor- 
row ! 


II 


BLYTHE   WAS    SHE 


211 


"  O'er  the  Past  too  fondly  wandering, 
On  the  hopeless  Future  pondering, 
Chilly  Grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 
Fell  Despair  my  fancy  seizes. 
Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 
Load  to  Misery  most  distressing. 
Gladly  how  would  I  resign  thee. 
And  to  dark  Oblivion  join  thee  !  " 


HOW   LANG  AND    DREARY    IS 
THE    NIGHT 

"  I  met  with  some  such  words  in  a  collection 
of  songs  somewhere,  which  I  altered  and  en- 
larged ;  and  to  please  you,  and  to  suit  your 
favourite  air  of  Cauld  Kail,  I  have  taken  a 
stride  or  two  across  my  room,  and  have  ar- 
ranged it  anew,  as  you  will  find  on  the  other 
page."      (R.  B.) 

CHORUS 

For  O,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang. 
And  O,  her  dreams  are  eerie. 

And  O,  her  \vidow'd  heart  is  sair. 
That 's  absent  frae  her  dearie  ! 


How  lang  and  dreary  is  the  night, 
When  I  am  frae  my  dearie  ! 

I  restless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn, 
Tho'  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 


When  I  think  on  the  lightsome  days 
I  spent  wi'  thee,  my  dearie. 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar, 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ? 


How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours  ! 

The  joyless  day  how  dreary  ! 
It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie  ! 


For  O,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang, 
And  O,  her  dreams  are  eerie. 

And  O,  her  widow'd  heart  is  sair. 
That 's  absent  frae  her  dearie  ! 


MUSING   ON    THE    ROARING 
OCEAN 

"  I  composed  these  verses  out  of  compliment 
to  a  Mrs.  M'Lachlau,  whose  husband  is  an 
officer  in  the  East  Indies."     (R.  B.) 

They  are  reminiscent  of  divers  Jacobitisms. 


Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean. 
Which  divides  my  love  and  me. 

Wearying  heav'n  in  warm  devotion 
For  his  weal  where'er  he  be: 


Hope  and  Fear's  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  Nature's  law. 

Whispering  spirits  round  my  pillow, 
Talk  of  him  that 's  far  awa. 


Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded, 
Ye  who  never  shed  a  tear. 

Care-untroubled,  joy-surroimded, 
Gaudy  day  to  you  is  dear  ! 


Gentle  night,  do  thou  befriend  me  ! 

Downy  sleep,  the  curtain  draw  ! 
Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, 

Talk  of  him  that 's  far  awa  ! 


BLYTHE   WAS    SHE 

"  I  composed  these  verses  while  I  staj'ed  at 
Ochtertyre  with  Sir  William  Murray.  The 
lady,  who  was  also  at  Ochtertyre  at  the  same 
time,  was  a  well-known  toast,  Miss  Euphemia 
Murray  of  Lintrose.  who  was  called,  and  very 
justly,  '  the  flower  of  Strathmore.'  "  (R.  B.) 
She  married  Mr.  Smythe  of  Methven.  who  be- 
came one  of  the  judges  of  the  Court  of  Session. 

CHORUS 
Blythe,  blythe  and  merry  was  she, 

Blythe  was  she  butt  and  ben, 
Blythe  by  the  banks  of  Earn, 

And  blythe  in  Glenturit  glen  ! 


By  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik. 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw; 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonier  lass 
Than  braes  o'  Yarrow  ever  saw. 


212 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


Her  looks  were  like  a  flow'r  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  morn. 

She  tripped  by  the  banks  o'  Earn 
As  light 's  a  bird  upon  a  thorn. 

Ill 

Her  bonie  face  it  was  as  meek 

As  onie  lamb  upon  a  lea. 
The  evening  sun  was  ne'er  sae  sweet 

As  was  the  blink  o'  Phemie's  e'e. 


The  Highland  hills  I  've  wander'd  wide, 
As  o'er  the  Lawlands  I  hae  been, 

But  Phemie  was  the  blythest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 

CHORUS 

Blythe,  blythe  and  merry  was  she, 
Blythe  was  she  butt  and  ben, 

Blythe  by  the  banks  of  Earn, 
And  blythe  in  Glenturit  Glen  ! 


TO    DAUNTON    ME 


CHORUS 

To  daunton  me,  to  daunton  me. 

An  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me  ! 


The  blude-red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw, 
The  simmer  lilies  bloom  in  snaw, 
The  frost  may  freeze  the  deepest  sea. 
But  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 


To  daunton  me,  and  me  sae  young, 
Wi'  his  fanse  heart  and  flatt'ring  tongue: 
That  is  the  thing  you  ne'er  shall  see. 
For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

Ill 

For  a'  his  meal  and  a'  his  maut. 
For  a'  his  fresh  beef  and  his  saut, 
For  a'  his  gold  and  white  monfe. 
An  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 


His  gear  may  buy  him  kye  and  yowes; 
His  gear  may  buy  him  glens  and  knowes; 


But  me  he  shall  not  buy  nor  fee. 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 


He  hirples  twa-fauld  as"  he  dow, 

Wi'  his   teethless  gab  and   his  auld  held 

pow, 
And   the   rain   rains   down   frae    his    red 

blear'd  e'e  — 
That  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me  ! 

CHORUS 
To  daunton  me,  to  daunton  me, 
An  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me  ! 


O'ER  THE  WATER  TO   CHARLIE 

The  "verses,"  Stenhouse  says,  were  "re- 
vised and  improved  by  Burns  ; '"  and,  he  adds, 
'■  a  more  complete  version  of  this  song  may  be 
seen  in  Hogg's  Jacobite  Heliques  "  {sic).  "  Many 
versions  of  this  song  "  —  thus  Buchan  in  a  note 
in  Hogg  and  Motherwell,  Part  V.  (1834)  — 
"  have  appeared  in  print.  There  is  one  in 
Hogg's  Jacobite  Selics,  and  one  in  the  Ancient 
Ballads  and  tiongs  of  the  North  of  Scotland, 
from  which  latter  copy  I  infer  that  the  original 
had  been  written  anterior  to  the  days  of  Prince 
Charles,  commonly  called  the  Pretender,  and 
the  time  of  Charles  the  Second's  restoration." 
But  Hogg's  set  is  merely  Ayrshire  Bard  plus 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  and  it  were  hard  to  say  how 
much  Peter  Bnchan's,  "  taken  down  from  re- 
citation," is  indebted  to  Peter  Buchan  —  espe- 
cially as  internal  evidence  shows  that,  as  he 
gives  it,  it  did  not  all  exist  before  his  own 
davs.  No  printed  copy  of  any  such  ballad  an- 
terior to  the  Bums  is  quoted  by  Buchan.  Nor 
do  we  know  more  than  three. 

CHORUS 

We  '11  o'er  the  water,  we  '11  o'er  the  sea, 
We  '11  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie  ! 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  we  '11  gather  and  go, 
And  live  and  die  wi'  Charlie  ! 


Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er, 
Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie  ! 

I  '11  gie  John  Ross  another  bawbee 
To  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie. 


I  lo'e  weel  my  Charlie's  name, 
Tho'  some  there  be  abhor  him; 


RATTLIN,   ROARIN   WILLIE 


213 


But  O,  to  see  Auld  Nick  gaun  harne, 
And  Charlie's  faes  before  him  ! 


Ill 

I  swear  and  vow  by  moon  and  stars 

And  sun  that  shines  so  early, 
If  I  had  twenty  thousand  lives, 

I  'd  die  as  aft  for  Charlie  ! 

CHORUS 

We  '11  o'er  the  water,  we  '11  o'er  the  sea, 
We  '11  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie  ! 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  we  '11  gather  and 
go, 
And  live  and  die  wi'  Charlie  ! 


A  ROSE-BUD,  BY   MY  EARLY 
WALK 

"  This  song'  I  composed  on  Miss  Jenny 
Cruiekshank,  only  child  to  my  worthy  friend 
Mr.  Win.  Cruiekshank,  of  the  Hig-h  School, 
Edinburgh.  The  air  is  by  David  Sillar,  quon- 
dam merchant,  and  now  schoolmaster  in  Irvine. 
He  is  the  '  Davie '  to  whom  I  address  my 
printed  poetical  epistle  in  the  measure  of  The 
Cherry  and  the  Slae."      (R.  B.) 

See  Prefatory  Note  to  To  Miss  Cruicksluank 
{ante,  p.  95.) 


A  R09E-BUD,  by  my  early  walk 
Adown  a  corn-inclosed  bawk, 
Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk, 

All  on  a  dewy  morning. 
Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  fled, 
In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head, 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 


Within  the  bush  her  covert  nest 

A  little  linnet  fondly  prest, 

The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast, 

Sae  early  in  the  morning. 
She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood, 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood, 
Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew'd, 

Awake  the  early  morning. 

Ill 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jeany  fair. 
On  trembling  string  or  vocal  air 
Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 


That  tents  thy  early  morning  ! 
So  thou,  sweet  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day. 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 

That  watch'd  thy  early  morning  ! 


AND    I'LL   KISS    THEE   YET 

CHORUS 

And  I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 
And  I  '11  kiss  thee  o'er  again, 

And  I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 
My  bonie  Peggy  Alison. 


When  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thy  charms, 
I  clasp  my  countless  treasure,  O, 

I  seek  nae  mair  o'  Heav'n  to  share 
Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure,  O  ! 


And  by  thy  een  sae  bonie  blue 
I  swear  I  'm  thine  for  ever,  O  ! 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 
And  break  it  shall  I  never,  O  ! 

CHORUS 

And  I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 
And  I  '11  kiss  thee  o'er  again, 

And  I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 
My  bonie  Peggy  Alison. 


RATTLIN,    ROARIN   WILLIE 

"  The  last  stanza  of  this  song  is  mine  ;  it 
was  composed  out  of  compliment  to  one  of  the 
worthiest  fellows  in  the  world,  William  Dun- 
bar, Esq.,  Writer  to  the  Signet.  Edinburgh,  and 
Colonel  of  the  Crochallan  Corps,  a  club  of  wits 
who  took  that  title  at  the  time  of  raising  the 
feneible  regiments."     (R.  B.) 

Dunbar,  who  became  Inspector-General  of 
Stamp  Duties  in  Scotland,  died  1 8th  February, 
1807.  He  presented  Burns  in  1787  with  a  copy 
of  .Spenser,  and  is  often  alluded  to  or  addressed 
in  terms  of  warm  resrard. 


O,  RATTLix,  roarin  Willie, 
O,  he  held  to  the  fair. 

An'  for  to  sell  his  fiddle 
And  buy  some  other  ware; 


214  SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


But  parting  wi'  his  fiddle,  ■ 
The  saut  tear  bliu't  his  e'e  — 

And,  rattlin,  roariu  Willie, 
Ye  're  welcome  hame  to  me  ! 


"  O  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle, 

O,  sell  your  fiddle  sae  fine  ! 
O  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle 

And  buy  a  pint  o'  wine  !  " 
"  If  I  should  sell  my  fiddle, 

The  warld  would  think  I  was  mad; 
For  monie  a  rantin  day 

My  fiddle  and  I  hae  had." 

Ill 

As  I  cam  by  Crochallan, 

I  canuily  keekit  ben, 
Rattlin,  roarin  Willie 

Was  sitting  at  yon  boord-en': 
Sitting  at  yon  boord-en'. 

And  amang  gnid  companie  ! 
Rattlin,  roarin  Willie, 

Ye  're  welcome  hame  to  me. 


WHERE,  BRAVING  ANGRY  W^IX- 
TER'S    STORMS 

The  heroine  -was  Margaret,  daiighter  of  John 
Chalmers  of  Fingland,  and  a  cousin  of  Char- 
lotte Hamilton,  her  particular  friend.  Bams 
met  her  in  Edinburgh  during  his  first  visit,  and 
also  in  October.  17>>7.  at  Harvieston.  She  mar- 
ried in  1788  Mr.  Lewis  Hay,  of  Forbes  and 
Co.'s  Bank  ;  and  died  in  1843.  Thomas  Camp- 
bell affirmed  that,  according  to  Mrs.  Hay, 
Bums  had  asked  her  in  marriage ;  but  this 
scarce  accords  with  the  tone  of  his  letters  to 
her.  Still,  he  had  a  particular  regard  for  the 
lady,  and  she  always  called  out  the  best  in 
him.  His  compliments  in  verse  —  or  rather 
his  proposal  to  publish  them  —  somewhat 
alarmed  her :  her  main  objection  being,  pre- 
sumably, not  to  the  song  in  the  text,  but  to 
My  Peggy''s  Face,  My  Peggy's  Form  (post,  p. 
263).  "  They  are  neither  of  them."  he  wrote 
to  her,  Gth  November,  1787,  "so  particular  as 
to  point  you  out  to  the  world  at  large  ;  and 
the  circle  of  your  acquaintance  will  allow  all  I 
have  said." 


Whkre,  braving  angry  winter's  storms, 

The  lofty  Ochils  rise. 
Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy's  charms 

First  blest  my  wondering  eyes: 


As  one  who  by  some  savage  stream 

A  lonely  gem  surveys, 
Astonish'd  doubly,  marks  it  beam 

With  art's  most  polish'd  blaze. 


Blest  be  the  wild,  sequester'd  glade, 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour. 
Where  Peggy's  charms  I  first  survey'd, 

When  first  I  felt  their  pow'r ! 
The  tyrant  Death  with  grim  control 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath. 
But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 

Must  be  a  stronger  death. 


O  TIBBIE,  I  HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY 

"  This  song  I  composed  about  the  age  of 
seventeen."     (R.  B.) 

Mrs.  Begg  states  that  the  heroine  was  one 
Isabella  Steenson,  or  Stevenson,  the  farmer's 
daughter  of  Little  Hill,  which  marched  with 
Loehlie.  The  song  itself  bears  no  small  resem- 
blance to  a  song  (probably  older)  called  The 
Saucy  Lass  with  the  Beard. 

CHORUS 
O  Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  day. 

Ye  wadna  been  sae  shy  ! 
For  laik  o'  gear  ye  lightly  me, 

But,  trowth,  I  care  na  by. 


Yestreex  I  met  you  on  the  moor. 
Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure  ! 
Ye  geek  at  me  because  I  'm  poor  — 
But  fient  a  hair  care  I  ! 


When  comin  hame  on  Sunday  last. 
Upon  the  road  as  I  cam  past. 
Ye  snuff t  an'  gae  your  head  a  cast  — 
But,  trowth,  I  care't  na  by  ! 


I  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think, 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o'  clink, 
That  ye  can  please  me  at  a  wink, 
Whene'er  ye  like  to  try. 


But  sorrow  tak  him  that 's  sae  mean, 
Altho'  his  pouch  o'  coin  were  clean, 
Wha  follows  onie  saucy  quean, 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high  ! 


THE  WINTER   IT   IS   PAST 


215 


Altho'  a  lad  were  e'er  sae  smart, 
If  that  he  waut  the  yellow  dirt, 
Ye  '11  cast  your  head  auither  airt, 
And  answer  liim  fu'  dry. 


But  if  he  hae  the  name  o'  gear, 
Ye  '11  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier, 
Tho'  hardly  he  for  sense  or  lear 
Be  better  than  the  kye. 


But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice: 
Your  daddie's  gear  maks  you  sae  nice. 
The  Deil  a  ane  wad  spier  your  price, 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 


There  lives  a  lass  beside  yon  park, 
I  'd  rather  hae  her  in  her  sark 
Than  you  wi'  a'  your  thousand  mark. 
That  gars  you  look  sae  high. 

CHORUS 

O  Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  day, 
Ye  wadna  been  sae  shy  ! 

For  laik  o'  gear  ye  lightly  me. 
But,  trowth,  I  care  na  by. 


CLARINDA,    MISTRESS    OF    MY 
SOUL 

This  song-  was  written  when  Burns  was  about 
to  leave  Edinburgh.  "  I  am  sick  of  wnriting 
where  my  bosom  is  not  strongly  interested. 
TeU  me  what  you  think  of  the  following. 
There  the  bosom  was  perhaps  a  little  inter- 
ested."    (R.  B.  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.) 


Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 
The  measur'd  time  is  run  ! 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 


To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 
Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie, 

Depriv'd  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 
The  sun  of  all  his  joy  ? 


Ill 


We  part  —  but,  by  these  precious  drops 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes, 
No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 

Till  thy  bright  beams  arise  ! 


She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 
Has  blest  my  glorious  day ; 

And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 
My  worship  to  its  ray  ? 


THE    WINTER    IT    IS    PAST 

This  song  is  largely  and  generously  adapted 
from  a  song  called  The  Curragh  of  Kildare. 
Only  stanza  ii.  is  wholly  his  own. 


The   winter   it   is  past,   and   the   simmer 
comes  at  last, 
And  the  small  birds  sing  on  ev'ry  tree: 
The  hearts  of  these  are  glad,  but  mine  is 
very  sad. 
For  my  love  is  parted  from  me. 

II 

The  rose  upon  the  brier  by  the  waters  run- 
ning clear 
May  have  charms  for  the  linnet  or  the 
bee: 
Their  little  loves  are  blest,  and  their  little 
hearts  at  rest. 
But  my  lover  is  parted  from  me. 


My  love  is  like  the  sim  in  the  firmament 
does  run  — 
Forever  is  constant  and  true ; 
But  his  is  like  the  moon,  that  wanders  up 
and  down. 
And  every  month  it  is  new. 


All   you    that   are    in  love,  and   cannot  it 
remove, 
I  pity  the  pains  you  endure. 
For  experience  makes  me  know  that  your 
hearts  are  full  of  woe, 
A  woe  that  no  mortal  can  cure. 


2l6 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


I    LOVE    MY    LOVE    IN    SECRET 

Stenhouse  affirms  that  the  old  song  was 
"slightly  altered  by  Bui-ns,  because  it  was 
rather  inadmissible  in  its  original  state  ;  "  but 
apparently  he  spoke  by  guesswork.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  Burns  got  his  original  —  here^ 
printed  for  the  first  time  —  in  the  Herd 
MS.:  — 

"  My  Sandy  O,  my  Sandy  O, 
My  bonie,  bonie  Sandy  O  ! 
Tho'  the  love  that  I  owe, 
To  thee  I  dare  nae  show, 
Yet  I  love  my  love  in  secret. 
My  Sandie  O. 

"  My  Sandy  gied  to  nie  a  ring 
Was  a'  beset  wi'  diamonds  fine  ; 
But  I  gied  to  him  a  far  better  thing  : 
I  gied  to  him  my  heart  to  keep 
In  pledge  of  his  ring." 

It  will  be  seen  that  all  he  did  was  to  add  a 
stanza  to  the  original  set,  or  what  was  left 
of  it. 

CHORUS 

My  Saudy  O,  my  Sandy  O, 
My  bonie,  bonie  Sandy  O  ! 
Tho'  the  love  that  I  owe 
To  thee  I  dare  na  show, 
Yet  I  love  my  love  in  secret, 
My  Sandy  O  ! 


My  Sandy  gied  to  me  a  ring 
Was  a'  beset  wi'  diamonds  fine; 
But  I  gied  him  a  far  better  thing, 
I  gied  my  heart  in  pledge  o'  his  ring. 


My  Sandy  brak  a  piece  o'  gowd. 

While    down    his    cheeks   the    saut    tears 

row'd; 
He  took  a  hauf,  and  gied  it  to  me, 
And  I  '11  keep  it  till  the  hour  I  die. 


My  Sandy  O,  my  Sandy  O, 
My  bonie,  bonie  Sandy  O  ! 
Tbo'  the  love  that  I  owe 
To  thee  I  dare  na  show, 
Yet  I  love  my  love  in  secret, 
My  Sandy  O  ! 
*  That  is,  in  the  Centenary  Edition. 


SWEET  TIBBIE    DUNBAR 

O,  WILT  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie 
Dunbar  ? 

O,  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie 
Dunbar  ? 

Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse,  or  be  drawn  in 
a  car. 

Or  walk  by  my  side,  O  sweet  Tibbie  Dun- 
bar? 


I  care  na  thy  daddie,  his  lands  and  his 
money ; 

I  care  na  thy  kin,  sae  high  and  sae  lordly ; 

But  say  that  thou  'It  hae  me  for  better  or 
waur, 

And  come  in  thy  coatie,  sweet  Tibbie  Dun- 
bar. 


HIGHLAND    HARRY 

"  The  chorus  I  picked  up  from  an  old  woman 
in  Dunblane.  The  rest  of  the  song  is  mine." 
(R.  B.) 

CHORUS 

O,  for  him  back  again  ! 

O,  for  him  back  again  ! 

I  wad  gie  a'  Knockhaspie's  land 

For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


My  Harry  was  a  gallant  gay, 

Fu'  stately  strade  he  on  the  plain, 

But  now  he  's  banish'd  far  away: 
I  '11  never  see  him  back  again. 


When  a'  the  lave  gae  to  their  bed, 
I  wander  dowie  up  the  glen, 

I  set  me  down,  and  greet  my  fill, 
And  ay  I  wish  him  back  again. 

Ill 

O,  were  some  villains  hangit  high, 
And  ilka  body  had  their  ain, 

Then  I  might  see  the  joyfu'  sight, 
My  Highland  Harry  back  again  ! 

CHORUS 

O,  for  him  back  again  ! 
O,  for  him  back  again  ! 


BEWARE     O'    BONIE   ANN 


217 


I  wad  gie  a'  Knockhaspie's  laud, 
For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


THE   TAILOR   FELL   THRO'   THE 
BED 

"  This  air  is  the  march  of  the  Corporation  of 
Tailors.  The  second  and  foui-th  stanzas  are 
mine.     (R.  B.) 

I 

The  tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed,  thimble  an' a', 
The  tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed,  thimble  an'  a' ; 
The  blankets  were  thin,  and  the  sheets  they 

were  sma'  — 
The  tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed,  thimble  an'  a' ! 


The  sleepy  bit  lassie,  she  dreaded  nae  ill, 
The  sleepy  bit  lassie,  she  dreaded  nae  ill; 
The  weather  was  cauld,  and  the  lassie  lay 

still: 
She  thought  that  a  tailor  could  do  her  nae 

iU! 

Ill 

Gie  me  the  groat  again,  cannie  young  man  ! 
Gie  me  the  groat  again,  cannie  young  man  ! 
The    day  it  is  short,  and  the   night  it   is 

lang  — 
The  dearest  siller  that  ever  I  wan  ! 

IV 
There 's    somebody   weary    wi'   lying    her 

lane. 
There 's    somebody  weary   wi'   lying    her 

lane  ! 
There  's  some  that  are  dowie,  I  trow  wad 

be  fain 
To  see  the  bit  tailor  come  skippin  again. 


AY    WAUKIN,  O 

CHORUS 

Ay  waukin,  O. 

Waukin  still  and  weary: 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 


SiMjrER  's  a  pleasant  time: 
Flowers  of  every  colour, 


The  water  rins  owre  the  heugh, 
And  I  long  for  my  true  lover. 


When  I  sleep  I  dream, 
When  I  wauk  I  'm  eerie. 

Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thiukiu  on  my  dearie. 


Lanely  night  comes  on, 

A'  the  lave  are  sleepin, 
I  thiuk  on  my  bonie  lad, 

And  I  bleer  my  een  wi'  g^eetin. 

CHORUS 

Ay  waukin,  O, 

Waukin  still  and  weary: 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie 


BEWARE   O'    BONIE   ANN 

"  I  composed  this  song  out  of  compliment 
to  Miss  Ann  Masterton,  the  daughter  of  my 
friend,  Allan  Masterton,  the  author  of  the  air 
Strathallan's  Lament;  and  two  or  three  others 
in  this  work."  (R.  B.) 

The  lady  married  Dr.  Derbyshire,  physician, 
of  Bath  and  London,  and  died  in  Aug^t,  1834. 


Ye  gallants  bright,  I  rede  you  right. 

Beware  o'  bonie  Ann  ! 
Her  comely  face  sae  fu'  o'  grace, 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 


Her  een  sae  bright  like  stars  by  night, 

Her  skin  is  like  the  swan. 
Sae  jimply  lac'd  her  genty  waist 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 


Youth,  Grace,  and  Love  attendant  move, 
And  Pleasure  leads  the  van  : 

In  a'  their  charms,  and  conquering  arms, 
They  wait  on  bonie  Ann. 

IV 

The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  hands, 
But  Love  enslaves  the  man  : 

Ye  gallants  braw,  I  rede  you  a*, 
Beware  o'  bonie  Ann  I 


2l8 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


LADDIE,   LIE    NEAR    ME 


Near  me,  near  me, 
Ijaddie,  lie  near  me  ! 
Lang  hae  I  lain  my  lane 
Laddie,  lie  near  me  ! 


Lang  hae  we  parted  been, 
Laddie,  my  dearie; 

Now  we  are  met  again  — 
Laddie,  lie  near  me  ! 


A'  that  I  hae  endur'd. 
Laddie,  my  dearie, 

Here  in  thy  arms  is  cur'd  — 
Laddie,  lie  near  me  ! 


Near  me,  near  me. 
Laddie,  lie  near  me  ! 
Lang  hae  I  lain  my  lane  • 
Laddie,  lie  near  me! 


THE  GARD'NER  WI'HIS  PAIDLE 

"  The  title  of  the  song  only  is  old  ;  the  rest  is 
mine."     (R.  B.) 

I 

When  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers 
To  deck  her  gay,  green-spreading  bowers. 
Then  busy,  busy  are  his  hours, 

The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 


The  crystal  waters  gently  fa'. 
The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a', 
The  scented  breezes  round  him  blaw  — 
The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 


When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare. 
Then  thro'  the  dew  he  maun  repair  — 
The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 

IV 

When  Day,  expiring  in  the  west, 
The  curtain  draws  o'  Nature's  rest, 


He  flies  to  her  arms  he  lo'es  best. 

The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 


ON   A   BANK   OF    FLOWERS 

The  original  was  written  by  Theobald,   set 
by   Galliard,   and   sung  by  Mr.   Park   in    The 

Lady^s  Triumph :  — 

"  On  a  Bank  of  Flowers 
In  a  summer's  day, 
Inviting  and  undrest, 
In  her  bloom  of  youth  bright  Celia  lay 
With  love  and  sleep  opprest, 
When  a  youthful  swain  with  adoring  eyes 
Wish'd  he  dared  the  fair  maid  surprise, 

With  a  fa  la  la, 
But  fear'd  approaching  spies." 

Bums  rather  bungles  his  inspiration,  and  cer- 
tainly diverts  his  motive  to  a  more  liberal  con- 
clusion. Both  original  and  derivative  belong 
to  a  type  of  pastoral  in  high  favour  after  the 
Restoration,  good  examples  being  Dryden's 
Chloe  found  Amyntas  Lying  and  Beneath  a 
Myrtle  Shade.  Older  and  less  farded,  less  arti- 
ficial and  immodest,  are  As  at  Noon  Dulcina 
Rested  (long  attributed  to  Raleigh)  and  that 
charming  ditty.  The  Matchless  Maid,  in  the 
Second  Westminster  Drollery  (1672). 


On  a  bank  of  flowers  in  a  summer  day. 

For  summer  lightly  drest. 
The  youthful,  blooming  Nelly  lay 

With  love  and  sleep  opprest; 
When  Willie,  wand'ring  thro'  the  wood, 
Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  sued  — 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd, 
He  fear'd,  he  blush'd. 
And  trembled  where  he  stood. 


Her  closed  eyes,  like  weapons  sheath'd, 

Were  seal'd  in  soft  repose; 
Her  lips,  still  as  she  fragrant  breath'd, 

It  richer  dyed  the  rose: 
The  springing  lilies,  sweetly  prest, 
Wild- wanton  kiss'd  her  rival  breast: 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd, 
He  fear'd,  he  blush'd, 
His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 


Her  robes,  light-waving  in  the  breeze, 
Her  tender-  limbs  embrace; 

Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease. 
All  harmony  and  grace. 


JAMIE,    COME   TRY    ME 


219 


Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll, 
A  faltering,  ardent  kiss  he  stole: 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd. 
He  fear'd,  he  blush 'd. 
And  sigh'd  his  very  soul. 


As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake 

On  fear-inspired  wings, 
So  Nelly,  starting,  half-awake, 

Away  affrighted  springs. 
But  Willie  foUow'd  —  as  he  should: 
He  overtook  her  in  the  wood; 
He  vow'd,  he  pray'd. 
He  found  the  maid 
Forgiving  all,  and  good. 


THE    DAY    RETURNS 

Tune  :  Seventh  of  November 

"  I  composed  this  song  out  of  compliment  to 
one  of  the  happiest  and  worthiest  couples  in 
the  world :  Rojjert  Riddell,  Esq.  of  Glenrid- 
dell,  and  his  lady.  At  their  fireside  I  have  en- 
joyed more  pleasant  evenings  than  at  all  the 
houses  of  fashionable  people  in  this  country 
put  together ;  and  to  their  kindness  and  hospi- 
tality I  am  indebted  for  many  of  the  happiest 
hours  of  my  life."     (R.  B.) 

For  Captain  Riddell,  see  ante,  p.  142,  Prefa- 
tory Note  to  Impromptu  to  Captain  Riddell. 
The  song  was  sent  to  him  in  a  letter  (unpub- 
lished) dated  Tuesday  evening  (i.  e.  9th  Sep- 
tember, 1788)  :  "  As  I  was  busy  behind  my 
harvest  folks  this  forenoon,  and  musing  on  a 
proper  theme  for  your  Seventh  of  November, 
some  of  the  conversation  before  me  accident- 
ally suggested  a  suspicion  that  this  said  Sev- 
enth of  November  is  a  matrimonial  anniver- 
sary with  a  certain  very  worthy  neighbour  of 
mine.  I  have  seen  very  few  who  owe  so  much 
to  a  wedding-day  as  Mrs.  Riddell  and  you  ;  and 
ray  imagination  took  the  hint  accordingly,  as 
you  wiU  see  on  the  next  page." 


The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns. 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet ! 
Tho'  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil'd. 

Ne'er  summer  sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 
Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  line. 
Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes, 

Heav'n   gave  me  more  —  it  made  thee 
mine  t 


While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 

Or  Nature  aught  of  pleasure  give, 
While  joys  above  my  mind  can  move, 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I  live  ! 
When  that  grim  foe  of  Life  below 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part, 
The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band. 

It  breaks  my  bliss,  it  breaks  my  heart  i 


MY   LOVE,  SHE  'S  BUT  A  LASSIE 
YET 

CHORUS 

My  love,  she 's  but  a  lassie  yet, 
My  love,  she  's  but  a  lassie  yet ! 
We  '11  let  her  stand  a  year  or  twa. 
She  '11  no  be  half  sae  saucy  yet ! 


I  RUE  the  day  I  sought  her,  O  ! 
I  rue  the  day  I  sought  her,  O  ! 
Wha  gets  her  need  na  say  he  's  woo'd. 
But  he  may  say  he  has  bought  her,  O. 


Come  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet, 
Come  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet ! 
Gae  seek  for  pleasure  whare  ye  will, 
But  here  I  never  missed  it  yet. 

Ill 

We  're  a'  dry  wi'  drinkin  o't. 
We  're  a'  dry  wi'  drinkin  o't  ! 
The  minister  kiss't  the  fiddler's  wife  — 
He  could  na  preach  for  thinkin  o't  ! 

CHORUS 

My  love,  she  's  but  a  lassie  yet, 
My  love,  she  's  but  a  lassie  yet ! 
We  '11  let  her  stand  a  year  or  twa. 
She  '11  no  be  half  sae  saucy  yet ! 


JAMIE,  COME  TRY  ME 

CHORUS 

Jamie,  come  try  me, 
Jamie,  come  try  me  ! 
If  thou  would  win  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me  1 


220 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


If  thou  should  ask  my  love, 
Could  I  deny  thee  ? 

If  thou  would  win  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me  ! 


If  thou  should  kiss  me,  love, 
Wha  could  espy  thee  ? 

If  thou  wad  be  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me  ! 

CHORUS 

Jamie,  come  try  me, 
Jamie,  come  try  me  ! 
If  thou  would  win  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me  ! 


THE    SILVER   TASSIE 


"  This    air    is    Oswald's : 
stanza :  — 


the     first     half 


"  '  Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 
And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie, 
That  I  may  drink  before  I  go 
A  service  to  my  bonie  lassie  : '  "  — 

is  old ;  the  rest  is  mine."  (R.  B.)  Neverthe- 
less, on  17th  December,  1788,  he  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Dnnlop  thus :  ' '  Now  I  am  on  my  hobby 
horse,  I  cannot  help  inserting-  two  other  old 
stanzas  which  please  me  mightily." 


Go,  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine. 

And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie, 
That  I  may  drink  before  I  go 

A  service  to  my  bonie  lassie  ! 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith, 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  Ferry, 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-Law, 

And  1  maun  leave  my  bonie  Mary. 


The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready. 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar. 

The  battle  closes  deep  and  bloody. 
It 's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry, 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar: 

It 's  leaving  thee,  my  bonie  Mary  ! 


THE    LAZY   MIST 


The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the 

hill, 
Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark  winding 

rill. 
How  languid  the  scenes,  late  so  sprightly, 

apjjear, 
As   Autumn   to   Winter   resigns   the  pale 

year ! 


The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows  are 

brown, 
And  all   the   gay   foppery   of   summer   is 

flown. 
Apart  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me  muse. 
How  quick  Time  is  flying,  how  keen  Fate 

pursues  ! 


How  long  I  have  liv'd,  but  how  much  liv'd 
in  vain  ! 

How  little  of  life's  scanty  span  may  re- 
main ! 

What  aspects  old  Time  in  his  progress  has 
worn  ! 

What  ties  cruel  Fate  in  my  bosom  has 
torn  ! 

IV 

How  foolish,  or  worse,  till   our  summit  is 

gain'd  ! 
And  downward,  how  weaken'd,  how  dark- 

en'd,  how  pain'd  ! 
Life  is  not  worth  ha%'ing  with  all   it   can 

give: 
For  something  beyond  it  poor  man,  sure, 

must  live. 


THE    CAPTAIN'S    LADY 

CHORUS 

O,  mount  and  go, 

Mount  and  make  you  ready  ! 
O,  mount  and  go. 

And  be  the  Captain's  Lady  ! 


When  the  drums  do  beat. 
And  the  cannons  rattle, 


I 


WHISTLE   O'ER   THE   LAVE   O'T 


Thou  slialt  sit  in  stute, 

And  see  thy  love  in  battle: 


When  the  vanqnish'd  foe 
Sues  for  peace  and  quiet, 

To  the  shades  we  '11  go, 
And  in  love  enjoy  it. 

CHORUS 

O,  mount  and  go, 

Mount  and  make  you  ready  ! 
O,  mount  and  go. 

And  be  the  Captain's  Lady  ! 


OF   A'   THE  AIRTS 

"  The  air  is  by  Marshall ;  the  song  I  com- 
posed out  of  compliment  to  Mrs.  Burns.  N.  B. 
It  was  during  the  honeymoon."  (R.  B.)  The 
song  was  no  doubt  written  shortly  after  his 
arrival  in  Ellisland,  while  his  wife  was  yet  in 
Ayrshire. 


Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives. 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best. 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  hill  between. 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 


I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers  — 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair. 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunef u'  birds  — 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air. 
There  's  not  a  bonie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There  's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


CARL,   AN    THE    KING    COME 

CHORUS 

Carl,  an  the  King  come, 
Carl,  an  the  King  come. 


Thou  shalt  dance,  and  I  will  sing, 
Carl,  an  the  King  come  ! 


An  somebodie  were  come  again. 
Then  somebodie  maun  cross  the  main, 
And  every  man  shall  hae  his  ain, 
Carl,  an  the  King  come  ! 


I  trow  we  swapped  for  the  worse: 
We  gae  the  boot  and  better  horse, 
And  that  we  '11  tell  them  at  the  Cross, 
Carl,  an  the  King  come  ! 


Coggie,  an  the  King  come, 
Coggie,  an  the  King  come, 
I  '11  be  fou,  and  thou  'se  be  toom, 
Coggie,  an  the  King  come  ! 


Carl,  an  the  King  come, 
Carl,  an  the  King  come. 
Thou  shalt  dance,  and  I  will  sing, 
Carl,  an  the  King  come  ! 


WHISTLE    O'ER   THE     LAVE    O'T 

The  repeat  is  borrowed  from  the  old  song, 
Whistle  O'er  the  Lave  O't.  [The  fiddler  of  The 
Jolly  Beggars  models  his  solo  upon  the  same 
ditty  (see  ante,  p.  105).] 


First  when  Maggie  was  my  care, 
Heav'n,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air; 
Now  we  're  married,  spier  nae  raair, 

But  —  whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't  ! 
Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild. 
Sweet  and  harmless  as  a  child: 
Wiser  men  than  me  's  beguiled  — 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't ! 


How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me. 
How  we  love,  and  how  we  gree, 
I  care  na  by  how  few  may  see  — 

T^^listle  o'er  the  lave  o't  ! 
Wha  I  wish  were  maggots'  meat, 
Dish'd  up  in  her  winding-sheet, 
I  could  write  (but  Meg  wad  see  't) 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't  ! 


222 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


O,  WERE  I  ON   PARNASSUS   HILL 


O,  WERE  I  on  Parnassus  hill, 
Or  had  o'  Helicon  my  fill, 
That  I  might  catch  poetic  skill 

To  sing  how  dear  I  love  thee  ! 
But  Nith  maun  be  my  Muses'  well, 
My  Muse  maun  be  thy  bonie  sel', 
Ou  Corsincon  I  '11  glowr  and  spell, 

And  write  how  dear  I  love  thee. 


Then  come,  sweet  Muse,  inspire  my  lay  ! 
For  a'  the  lee-lang  simmer's  day 
I  couldna  sing,  I  couldna  say 

How  much,  how  dear  I  love  thee. 
I  see  thee  dancing  o'er  the  green. 
Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean. 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een  — 

By  Heaven  and  Earth  1  love  thee  ! 

Ill 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 
The  thoughts  o'  thee  my  breast  inflame. 
And  ay  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name  — ■ 

I  only  live  to  love  thee. 
Tho'  I  were  doom'd  to  wander  on. 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun. 
Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run. 

Till  then  —  and  then  —  I  'd  love  thee  ! 


THE    CAPTIVE    RIBBAND 


Myra,  the  captive  ribband  's  mine  ! 

'T  was  all  my  faithful  love  could  gain, 
And  would  you  ask  me  to  resign 

The  sole  reward  that  crowns  my  pain  ? 


Go,  bid  the  hero,  who  has  run 

Thro'  fields  of  death  to  gather  fame  — 
Go,  bid  him  lay  his  laurels  down. 

And  all  his  well-earn'd  praise  disclaim  ! 


The  ribband  shall  its  freedom  lose  — 
Lose  all  the  bliss  it  had  with  you  !  — 

And  share  the  fate  I  would  impose 
Ou  thee,  wert  thou  my  captive  too. 


It  shall  upon  my  bosom  live, 
Or  clasp  me  in  a  close  embrace; 

And  at  its  fortune  if  you  grieve. 

Retrieve  its  doom,  and  take  its  place. 


THERE'S  A  YOUTH  IN  THIS  CITY 

"  The  air  is  claimed  by  Neil  Gow,  -who  calls 
it  his  Lament  for  his  brother.  The  first  half 
stanza  of  the  song  is  old;  the  rest  is  mine." 

Bums  was  never  above  vamping  from  him- 
self; and  the  present  piece  is  strongly  reminis- 
cent of  The  Belles  of  Mauchline  {ante,  p.  171). 


There's  a  youth  in  this  city,  it  were  a 
great  pity 
That  he  from  our  lasses  should  wander 
awa'; 
For    he 's    bonie    and   braw,    weel-favor'd 
witha'. 
An'  his  hair  has  a  natural  buckle  an'  a'. 


His  coat  is  the  hue  o'  his  bonnet  sae  blue. 
His  fecket  is  white  as   the  new-driven 
snaw. 
His  hose  they  are  blae,  and  his  shoon  like 
the  slae, 
And  his  clear  siller  buckles,  they  dazzle 
us  a'. 


For  beauty  and  fortune  the  laddie 's  been 
courtin : 
Weel  -  featur'd,    weel  -  tocher'd,    weel- 
mounted,  an'  braw. 
But  chiefly  the  siller  that  gars  him  gang 
till  her  — 
The  penny 's  the  jewel  that  beautifies  a' ! 


There  's  Meg  wi'  the  mailen,  that  fain  wad 
a  haen  him, 
And   Susie,  wha's  daddie  was  laird  of 
the  Ha', 
There  's  lang-tocher'd  Nancy  maist  fetters 
his  fancy; 

But  the  laddie's  dear  sel  he  loes  dearest 
of  a'. 


I 


I 


AWA',    WHIGS,    AWA' 


223 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS 

"The  first  half  stanza  of  this  song  is  old; 
the  rest  is  mine."     (R.  B.) 

Bums  apparently  refers  to  the  first  half 
stanza  of  the  chorus.  Sharpe  quotes  ' '  from  a 
stall  copy  "  The  Strong  Walls  of  Berry,  one 
stanza  in  which  is  almost  identical  with  the 
Burns  chorus. 

CHORUS 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  niy  heart 

is  not  here, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing 

the  deer, 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer  and  following 

the  roe  — 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever 

I  go  ! 

I 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to 

the  North, 
The  birthplace  of   valour,  the  country  of 

worth  ! 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove. 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 


Farewell   to   the   mountains   high   cover'd 

with  snow, 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys 

below, 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging 

woods. 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring 

floods  ! 

CHORUS 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart 

is  not  here. 
My  heart 's  in  the   Highlands  a-chasing 

the  deer, 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer  and  following 

the  roe  — 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever 

I  go! 


\ 

JOHN    ANDERSON   MY   JO 


John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent, 


Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 
Your  bonie  brow  was  brent; 

But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John. 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw. 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo  ! 


John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  thegither. 

And  monie  a  cantie  day,  John, 
We  've  had  wi'  ane  anither; 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
And  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go. 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
N.    John  Anderson  my  jo  ! 


AWA',   WHIGS,   AWA' 

CHORUS 

Awa',  Whigs,  awa'  ! 

Awa',  Whigs,  awa'  ! 
Ye  're  but  a  pack  o'  traitor  loims, 

Ye  '11  do  nae  guid  at  a'. 


Our  thrissles  flourish'd  fresh  and  fair, 
And  bonie  bloom'd  our  roses; 

But  Whigs  cam  like  a  frost  in  June, 
An'  wither'd  a'  our  posies. 


Our  ancient  crown  's  fa'n  in  the  dust  — 
Deil  blin'  them  wi'  the  stoure  o't, 

An'  write  their  names  in  his  black  beuk, 
Wha  gae  the  Whigs  the  power  o't  ! 


Our  sad  decay  in  church  and  state 
Surpasses  my  descriving. 

The  Whigs  cam  o'er  us  for  a  curse. 
And  we  hae  done  wi'  thriving. 


Grim  Vengeance  lang  has  taen  a  nap, 
But  we  may  see  him  waukin  — 

Gude  help  the  day  when  Royal  heads 
Are  hunted  like  a  maukin  ! 

CHORUS 

Awa',  Whigs,  awa'  ! 

Awa',  Whigs,  awa'  ! 
Ye  're  but  a  pack  o'  traitor  louns. 

Ye  '11  do  nae  guid  at  a'. 


224  SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


CA'   THE    YOWES    TO    THE 
KNOWES 

"  This  beautiful  song  is  in  the  true  old 
Scotch  taste,  yet  I  do  not  know  that  either  the 
air  or  words  were  in  print  before."     (R.  B.) 

In  sending  a  new  version  (post,  p.  292)  to 
Thomson  in  September,  1794,  he  wrote  :  "  I  am 
flattered  at  your  adopting  Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the 
Knowes,  as  it  was  owing  to  me  that  ever  it  saw 
the  light.  About  seven  years  ago,  I  was  well 
acquainted  with  a  worthy  little  fellow,  a  Mr. 
Clunie  [Rev.  John  Clunie,  minister  of  Ewes, 
Dumfriesshire,  author  of  /  Loe  Ka  a  Laddie 
but  Ane],  who  sang  it  charmingly  ;  and.  at  my 
request,  Mr.  Clarke  took  it  down  from  his  sing- 
ing. When  I  gave  it  to  Johnson  I  added  some 
stanzas  to  the  song  and  mended  others  ;  but 
still  it  will  not  do  for  you."  Stenhouse  gives 
the  old  words,  presumably  those  taken  down 
from  Clunie 's  singing.  It  can  scarce  be  af- 
firmed that  Bums  has  improved  them.  The 
two  last  stanzas  are  his ;  his  two  first  are  ex- 
panded from  Clunie's  first  ;  while  his  two 
middles,  where  they  differ  from  Clunie,  differ 
for  the  worse. 


Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rowes, 
My  bonie  dearie  ! 


As  I  gaed  down  the  water-side, 
There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad: 
He  row'd  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid. 
And  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 


"Will  ye  gang  down  the  water-side, 
And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide 
Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide  ? 
The  moon  it  shines  fu'  clearly." 


"  I  was  bred  up  in  nae  sic  school. 
My  shepherd  lad,  to  play  the  fool, 
An'  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool. 
An'  naebody  to  see  me." 

IV 

"Ye  sail  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 
Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet, 
And  in  my  arms  thou  'It  lie  and  sleep. 
An'  ye  sail  be  my  dearie." 


"  If  ye  '11  but  stand  to  what  ye  Ve  said, 
I  'se  gang  wi'  you,  my  shepherd  lad, 
And  ye  may  row  me  in  your  plaid, 
And  I  sail  be  your  dearie." 


VI 


While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea. 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie. 
Till  clay-cauld  death  sail  blin'  my  e'e, 
Ye  sail  be  my  dearie." 


Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  ^ows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rowes, 
My  bonie  dearie  ! 


O,   MERRY    HAE    I    BEEN 

"  Ramsay,  as  usual,  has  modernized  this 
song.  The  original,  which  I  learned  on  the 
spot,  from  the  old  hostess  in  the  principal  Inn 
there,  is :  — 

'  "  Lassie,  lend  me  your  braw  hemp-heckle, 
And  I  '11  lend  you  my  thripplin  kame." 
"My  heckle  is  broken,  it  canna  be  gotten, 
And  we  '11  gae  dance  the  Bob  o'  Dumblane." 
Twa  gaed  to  the  wood,  to  the  wood,  to  the  wood, 

Twa  gaed  to  the  wood  —  three  came  hame; 
An  it  be  na  weel  bobbit,  weel  bobbit,  weel  bobbit, 
And  it  be  na  weel  bobbit  we  '11  bob  it  again.' 

I  insert  this  song  to  introduce  the  following 
anecdote,  which  I  have  heard  well  authenti- 
cated. In  the  evening  of  the  day  of  the  battle 
of  Dunblane  (Sheriffmuir)  when  the  action 
was  over,  a  Scots  officer  in  Argyle's  army  ob- 
served to  his  Grace  that  he  was  afraid  the 
rebels  would  give  out  to  the  world  that  they 
had  gotten  the  victory.  'Weel,  weel,'  an- 
swered his  Grace,  alluding  to  the  foregoing 
ballad,  '  if  they  think  it  nae  weel  bobbit,  we  '11 
bob  it  again.' "     (R.  B.) 


J 


O,  MERRY  hae  I  been  teethin  a  heckle, 

An'  merry  hae  I  been  shapin  a  spoon  I 
0,  merry  hae  I  been  cloutin  a  kettle. 

An'  kissin  ray  Katie  when  a'  was  done  ! 
O,  a'  the  lang  day  I  ca'  at  my  hammer, 

An'  a'  the  lang  day  I  whistle  an'  sing  ! 
O,  a'  the  lang  night  I  cuddle  my  kimmer, 

An'  a'  the  lang  night  as  happy  's  a  king  I 


I 


I 


THE  BRAES   O'   BALLOCHMYLE 


225 


Bitter  in  dool,  I  lickit  my  winnins 

O'  marrying  Bess,  to  gie  her  a  slave. 
Blest  be  the  hour  she  cool'd  in  her  linens, 
And  blythe  be  the  bird  that  sings  on  her 
grave  ! 
»    Come  to  my  arms,  my  Katie,  my  Katie, 
■       An'   come   to    my   arms,   and    kiss   me 
again  ! 
Drueken  or  sober,  here  's  to  thee,  Katie, 
And  blest  be  the  day  I  did  it  again  ! 


A  MOTHER'S   LAMENT 

' '  The  words  were  composed  to  commemorate 
the  much  lamented  and  premature  death  of 
James  Ferguson,  Esq.,  Junior,  of  Craigdar- 
roch."     (R.  B.) 

In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  (27th  September, 
1788)  Burns  states  that  he  made  them  on  a 
twenty-six  mile  ride  from  Nithsdale  to  Maueh- 
line.  The  copy  sent  her  is  entitled  Mis.  Fer- 
gusson  of  Craigdarrodi  s  Lamentation  for  the 
Death  of  her  Son.  Young  Fergusson  died  5th 
November,  1787,  just  after  completing  his 
university  course.  The  only  son  of  Mrs.  Stew- 
art of  Afton  died  -^th  December,  1787,  and 
Burns  inscribed  the  song  in  the  A/ton  Lodge 
Book,  which  he  presented  to  the  bereaved 
mother,  his  title  this  time  being  A  Mother''s 
Lament  for  the  Loss  oj"  Her  Only  Son. 


Fate  gave  the  word  —  the  arrow  sped, 

And  piere'd  my  darling's  heart, 
And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 

Life  can  to  me  impart. 
By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops, 

In  dust  dishonor'd  laid: 
So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes, 

My  age's  future  shade. 


The  mother  linnet  in  the  brake 

Bewails  her  ravish 'd  young: 
So  I  for  my  lost  darling's  sake 

Lament  the  live-day  long. 
Death,  oft  I  've  fear'd  thy  fatal  blow  ! 

Now  fond  I  bare  my  breast  ! 
O,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low, 

With  him  I  love  at  rest ! 


THE   WHITE    COCKADE 


O,  he  's  a  ranting,  roving  lad  ! 
He  is  a  brisk  an'  a  bonie  lad  ! 
Betide  what  may,  I  will  be  wed. 
And  follow  the  boy  wi'  the  White  Cock- 
ade ! 


My  love  was  born  in  Aberdeen, 
The  boniest  lad  that  e'er  was  seen; 
But  now  he  makes  our  hearts  f u'  sad  — 
He  takes  the  field  wi'  his  White  Cockade. 


I  '11  sell  my  rock,  my  reel,  my  tow, 
My  guid  gray  mare  and  hawkit  cow. 
To  buy  mysel  a  tartan  plaid. 
To  follow  the  boy  wi'  the  White  Cockade. 

CHORUS 

O,  he  's  a  ranting,  roving  lad  ! 
He  is  a  brisk  an'  a  bonie  lad  ! 
Betide  what  may,  I  will  be  wed, 
And  follow  the  boy  wi'  the  White  Cock- 
ade ! 


THE    BRAES    O'  BALLOCHMYLE 

"  I  composed  the  verses  on  the  amiable  and 
excellent  family  of  Whitefoord's  leaving  Bal- 
lochmyle,  when  Sir  .John's  misfortunes  had 
obliged  him  to  sell  the  estate."  (R.  B.)  See 
Prefatory  Note  to  Lines  Sent  to  Sir  John 
Whitefoord,  Bart,  {ante,  p.  88). 


The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 

The  flowers  decay'd  on  Catrine  lea; 
Nae  lav'roek  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  nature  sicken'd  on  the  e'e; 
Thro'  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel  in  beauty's  bloom  the  while, 
And  aye  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang:  — 

"  Fareweel  the  braes  o'  Ballochmvle  i 


"  Low  in  yonr  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers, 
Again  ye  '11  flourish  fresh  and  fair; 

Ye  birdies,  dumb  in  with'ring  bowers. 
Again  ye  '11  charm  the  vocal  air; 


226 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   ''MUSICAL  MUSEUM 


But  here,  alas  !  for  me  nae  mair 
Shall  birdie  charm,  or  floweret  smile: 

Fareweel  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr  ! 
Fareweel !  fareweel  sweet  Ballochmyle  ! 


THE  RANTIN  DOG,  THE  DADDIE 
O'T 

"I  composed  this  song  pretty  early  in  life, 
and  sent  it  to  a  young  girl,  a  very  particular 
acquaintance  of  mine,  who  was  at  the  time 
under  a  cloud."     (R.  B.) 

The  "young  girl"  may  have  been  either 
Elizabeth  Paton  (see  A  PoeVs  Welcome,  ante, 
p.  113)  or  Jean  Armour.    It  matters  not  which. 

I 
O,  WHA  my  babie-clouts  will  buy  ? 
O,  wha  will  tent  me  when  I  cry  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  me  where  I  lie  ? — 
The  rantin  dog,  the  daddie  o't ! 

11 
O,  wha  will  own  he  did  the  f  aut  ? 
O,  wha  will  buy  the  groanin  maut  ? 
O,  wha  will  tell  me  how  to  ca't  ?  — 
The  rantin  dog,  the  daddie  o't ! 

Ill 
When  I  mount  the  ereepie-chair, 
Wha  will  sit  beside  me  there  ? 
Gie  me  Rob,  I  'H  seek  nae  mair  — 
The  rantin  dog,  the  daddie  o  1 1 

IV 

Wha  will  crack  to  me  my  lane  ? 
Wha  will  mak  me  fidgin  fain  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  me  o'er  again  ?  — 
The  rantin  dog,  the  daddie  o  1 1 


THOU    LINGERING   STAR 


13th  December,  Burns,  groaning  "  under  the 
miseries  of  a  diseased  nervous  system,"  refers 
with  longing  to  a  future  life  :  "  There  should 
I,  with  speechless  agony  of  rapture,  again 
welcome  my  lost,  my  ever  dear  Mary,  whose 
bosom  was  fraught  with  truth,  honour,  con- 
stancy, and  love :  — 

"  My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade,"  etc. 

Currie  states  that  a  copy  found  among 
Bums's  papers  was  headed  To  Mary  in  Heaven; 
but  only  seeing  is  believing. 

I 
Thou  ling'ring  star  with  less'ning  ray, 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the   groans  that  rend  hiB 
breast  ? 

II 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow'd  grove. 
Where,  by  the  winding  Ayr,  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
Eternity  cannot  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past, 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  — 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last  1 

III 
Ayr  gurgling,  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 
O'erhung  with  wild    woods   thickening 
green; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 
'TwinM    amorous    round    the    rapturd 

SCGllC  * 

The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 
The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray. 

Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 


Enclosing  this  very  famous  lament  —  hypo- 
chondriacal and  remorseful,  yet  riddled  with 
adjectives,  specifically  amatorious,  yet  wofuUy 
lacking  in  genuine  inspiration  —  in  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  Dunlop,  8th  November,  1789,  Buras  de- 
scribed it  as  "  made  the  other  day.  He  also 
asked  her  opinion  of  it,  as  he  was  too  much 
interested  in  the  subject  to  be  a  critic  in 
the  composition."  For  Mary  <^,ampbell  see 
ante  p.  204,  Prefatory  Note  to  My  Highland 
Lassie,  O.  In  a  letter  written  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  on 


IV 
Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser-care. 
Time  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear 
O  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  / 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  b\s 
breast  ? 


I 


I 


THE   BATTLE   OF   SHERRAMUIR 


227 


EPPIE    ADAIR 

CHORUS 
An'  O  my  Eppie, 
My  jewel,  my  Eppie  ! 
Wha  wadna  be  happy 
Wi'  Eppie  Adair  ? 


By  love  and  by  beauty, 
By  law  and  by  duty, 
I  swear  to  be  true  to 
My  Eppie  Adair  ! 


A'  pleasure  exile  me, 
Dishonour  defile  me, 
If  e'er  I  beguile  thee, 
My  Eppie  Adair ! 

CHORUS 

An'  O  my  Eppie, 
My  jewel,  my  Eppie  ! 
Wha  wadna  be  happy 
Wi'  Eppie  Adair  ? 


THE   BATTLE   OF    SHERRAMUIR 

This  song,  in  which  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the 
fight  are  summarised  with  excellent  discrimi- 
nation, is  condensed  from  a  ballad  by  the  Rev. 
John  Barclay  (1734—1798),  Berean  minister  at 
Edinbiirgh)  :  "  The  Dialogue  Betwixt  William 
Luckladle  and  Thomas  Cleancogue,  Wlio  were 
Feeding  their  Sheep  upon  the  Ochil  Hills,  13th 
November,  1715.  Being  the  day  the  Battle  of 
Sheriffmuir  was  Fought.  To  the  tune  of  The 
Cameron  Men^ 

I 

"  0,  CAM  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun. 
Or  herd  the  sheep  wi'  me,  man  ? 
Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-moor, 
Or  did  the  battle  see,  man  ?  " 
"  I  saw  the  battle,  sair  and  teugh. 
And  reekin-red  ran  monie  a  sheugh; 
My  heart  for  fear  gae  sough  for  sough. 
To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  cluds 
0'  clans  frae  woods  in  tartan  duds, 
Wha  glaum'd  at  kingdoms  three,  man. 


"  The  red-coat  lads  wi'  black  cockauds 
To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man: 


They  rush'd   and   push'd   and    bluid   out- 
gush'd. 
And  monie  a  bouk  did  fa',  man  ! 
The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 
I  wat  they  glanc'd  for  twenty  miles; 
They  hougb'd  the  clans  like  nine-pin  kyles, 
Theyhack'd  and  hash'd,  while  braid-swords 

clash'd. 
And   thro'    they   dash'd,    and    hew'd    and 
smash'd. 
Till  fey  men  died  awa,  man. 


"  But  had  ye  seen  the  philibegs 

And  skyrin  tartan  trews,  man, 
When  in  the  teeth  they  daur'd  our  Whigs 

And  Covenant  trueblues,  man  ! 
In  lines  extended  lang  and  large. 
When  baig'nets  o'erpower'd  the  targe, 
And  thousands  hasten'd  to  the  charge, 
Wi'  Highland  wrath  they  frae  the  sheath 
Drew  blades  o'  death,  till  out  o'  breath 
They  fled  like  frighted  dows,  man  !  " 


"  O,  how  Deil  !     Tam,  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  north,  man  ! 
I  saw  mysel,  they  did  pursue 

The  horseman  back  to  Forth,  man; 
And  at  Dunblane,  in  my  ain  sight, 
They  took  the  brig  wi'  a'  their  might, 
And  straught  to  Stirling  wing'd  their  flight; 
But,  cursed  lot !  the  gates  were  shut, 
And  monie  a  huntit  poor  red-coat. 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man  !  " 


"  My  sister  Kate  cam  up  the  gate 

Wi'  crowdie  unto  me,  man: 
She  swoor  she  saw  some  rebels  run 

To  Perth  and  to  Dundee,  man  ! 
Their  left-hand  general  had  nae  skill ; 
The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good  will 
That  da}'  their  neebors'  bluid  to  spill; 
For  fear  by  foes  that  they  should  lose 
Their  cogs  o'  brose,  they  sear'd  at  blows, 

And  hameward  fast  did  flee,  man. 


"  They  've  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen, 
Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man  ! 

I  fear  my  Lord  Panmure  is  slain, 
Or  in  his  en'mies'  hands,  man. 

Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  flight. 

Some  fell  for  wrang,  and  some  for  right, 


228 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


But  monie  bade  the  world  guid-uight: 
Say,  pell  and  mell,  \vi'  muskets'  knell 
How  Tories  fell,  and  Wliigs  to  Hell 
Flew  off  in  frighted  bands,  man  !  " 


YOUNG   JOCKIE   WAS   THE 
BLYTHEST   LAD 


Young  Jockie  was  the  blythest  lad, 
In  a'  our  town  or  here  awa: 

Fu'  blythe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud, 
Fu'  Uglitly  danc'd  he  in  the  ha'. 


He  roos'd  my  een  sae  bonie  blue, 
He  roos'd  my  waist  sae  genty  sma'; 

An'  ay  my  heart  cam  to  my  mou', 
When  ne'er  a  body  heard  or  saw. 

in 

My  Jockie  toils  upon  the  plain 

Thro'  wind   and   weet,    thro'  frost   and 
snaw ; 
And  o'er  the  lea  I  leuk  fu'  fain. 

When  Jockie's  owsen  hameward  ca'. 

IV 

An'  ay  the  night  comes  round  again. 
When  in  his  arms  he  taks  me  a'. 

An'  ay  he  vows  he  '11  be  my  ain 
As  lang  's  he  has  a  breath  to  draw. 


A   WAUKRIFE   MINNIE 

"  I  picked  up  the  old  song  and  tune  from  a 
country  girl  in  Nithsdale.  I  never  met  with  it 
elsewhere  in  Scotland."     (R.  B.) 

The  vamp  —  if  vamp  it  be,  and  we  have  no- 
where found  an  original  —  is  in  Bums's  happi- 
est and  most  "  folkish  "  vein. 


"  Whare  are  you  gaun,  my  bonie  lass  ? 

Whare  are  you  gaun,  my  hinnie  ?  " 
She  answer'd  me  right  saucilie :  — 

"  An  errand  for  my  minnie  !  " 


*'  O,  whare  live  ye,  my  bonie  lass  ? 
O,  whare  live  ye,  my  hinnie  ?  " 


■  By  yon  burnside,  gin  ye  maun  ken. 
In  a  wee  house  wi'  my  minnie  ! " 


But  I  foor  up  the  glen  at  e'en 

To  see  my  bonie  lassie, 
And  lang  before  the  grey  morn  cam 

She  was  na  hauf  sae  saucy. 


0,  weary  fa'  the  waukrife  cock. 
And  the  foumart  lay  his  crawin  ! 

He  wauken'd  the  auld  wife  frae  her  sleep 
A  wee  blink  or  the  dawin. 


An  angry  wife  I  wat  she  raise, 
And  o'er  the  bed  she  brought  her. 

And  wi'  a  meikle  hazel-rung 

She  made  her  a  weel-pay'd  dochter. 


"  O,  fare-thee-weel,  my  bonie  lass  ! 

O,  fare-thee-weel,  my  hinnie  ! 
Thou  art  a  gay  and  a  bonie  lass. 

But  thou  has  a  waukrife  minnie  !  " 


THO'   WOMEN'S   MINDS 

"  The  song  is  mine,  all  except  the  chorus." 
(E.  B.) 

A  new  set  of  the  Bard's  song  in  The  Jolly 
Beggars  {ante,  p.  106).  [The  verses  were 
clearly  suggested  by  an  old  Scots  song  begin- 
ning, 

"  Put  butter  in  my  Donald's  brose," 

and  having  a  similar  refrain.    See  also  the  song 
Is  Therefor  Honest  Poverty,  post,  p.  294.] 

CHORUS 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

And  twice  as  meikle  's  a'  that, 

The  bonie  lass  that  I  loe  best. 
She  'U  be  my  ain  for  a'  that ! 

I 

Tho'  women's  minds  like  winter  winds 
May  shift,  and  turn,  an'  a'  that, 

The  noblest  breast  adores  them  maist  — • 
A  consequence,  I  draw  that. 

II 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair, 
Their  humble  slave,  an'  a'  that; 


KILLIECRANKIE 


229 


But  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  still 
A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 


In  rapture  sweet  this  hour  we  meet, 
Wi'  mutual  love  an'  a'  that. 

But  for  how  lang  the  flie  may  stang, 
Let  inclination  law  that  ! 


Their  tricks  an'  craft  hae  put  me  daft. 
They  've  taen  me  in  an'  a'  that, 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here  's:  —  "  The 
Sex  !  " 
I  like  the  jads  for  a'  that ! 

CHORUS 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

And  twice  as  meikle  's  a'  that, 

The  bonie  lass  that  I  loe  best, 
She  '11  be  my  ain  for  a'  that ! 


WILLIE  BREW'D  A  PECK  O'  MAUT 

"The  air  is  Masterton's ;  the  song  niiue. 
The  occasion  of  it  was  this :  Mr.  Wm.  Nicol, 
of  the  High  School,  Edinburgh,  during  the 
autumn  vacation  being  at  Moffat,  honest  Allan 
(who  was  at  that  time  on  a  visit  to  Dalswinton) 
and  I  went  to  pay  Nicol  a  visit.  We  had  such 
a  joyous  meeting  that  Mr.  Masterton  and  I 
agreed,  each  in  our  own  way,  that  we  should 
celebrate  the  business."     (R.  B.) 

The  meeting  took  place  in  the  autumn  of 
1789.  The  song  —  a  little  masterpiece  of 
drunken  fancy  —  is  included  in  Thomson. 
For  William  Nicol  see  ante,  p.  19.5,  Prefatory 
Note  to  Epitaph  For  William  Nicol.  Allan 
Masterton  was  appointed  writing-master  to 
Edinburgh  High  School  10th  October,  1789. 
He  died  in  1799. 

CHORUS 

We  are  na  fou,  we  're  nae  that  fou. 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e  ! 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
And  ay  we  '11  taste  the  barley-bree  ! 


0,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut. 
And  Rob  and  Allan  cam  to  see. 

Three  blyther  hearts  that  lee-lang  night 
Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 


Here  are  we  met  three  merry  boys. 
Three  merry  boys  I  trow  are  we; 

And  monie  a  night  we  've  merry  been, 
And  monie  mae  we  hope  to  be  ! 


It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn. 
That 's  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie : 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she  '11  wait  a  wee  ! 


Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 
A  cuckold,  coward  loun  is  he  ! 

Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa'. 
He  is  the  King  amang  us  three  ! 

CHORUS 

We  are  na  fou,  we  're  nae  that  fou, 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e  ! 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
And  ay  we  '11  taste  the  barley-bree  ! 


KILLIECRANKIE 

"  The  battle  of  Killiecrankie  was  the  last 
stand  made  by  the  clans  for  James  after  his 
abdication.  Here  the  gallant  Lord  Dundee 
fell  in  the  moment  of  victory,  and  with  him 
fell  the  hopes  of  the  party.  General  M'Kay, 
when  he  found  the  Highlanders  did  not  pursue 
his  flying  army,  said  :  '  Dundee  must  be  killed, 
or  he  never  would  have  overlooked  this  advan- 
tage.' A  great  stone  marks  the  place  where 
Dundee  fell."  (R.  B.)  But  the  fact  is  that 
Dundee  got  his  hurt  fiu-ther  up  the  hill  than 
the  "  great  stone."  The  battle  was  fought  on 
17th  July,  1689. 

CHORUS 

An  ye  had  been  whare  I  hae  been. 
Ye  wad  na  been  sae  cantie,  O  ! 

An  ye  had  seen  what  I  hae  seen 
On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  O  ! 


"  Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  ? 
Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  brankie,  O  ? 
Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  ? 
Cam  ye  by  Killiecrankie,  O  ?  " 


230 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


I  faught  at  land,  I  faught  at  sea, 
At  hame  I  faught  my  auutie,  O; 

But  I  met  the  Devil  aud  Dundee 
On  the  braes  o'  Killiecraukie,  O  ! 


"  The  bauld  Pitcur  fell  in  a  furr, 
An'  Clavers  gat  a  clankie,  O, 
Or  I  had  fed  an  Athole  gled 

On  the  braes  o'  Killiecraukie,  O  !  " 

CHORUS 

An  ye  had  been  whare  I  hae  been. 
Ye  wad  na  been  sae  cantie,  O  ! 

An  ye  had  seeu  what  I  hae  seen 
On  the  braes  o'  Killiecraukie,  O  ! 


THE    BLUE-EYED    LASSIE 

Enclosed  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  2d  Oc- 
tober, 1788  :  "  How  do  you  like  the  following 
song,  designed  for  and  composed  by  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  which  he  has  christened  The  Blue- 
Eyed  Lassie."  The  friend  was  Captain  Kohert 
RiddeU. 

The  "  blue-eyed  lassie  "  was  Jean,  daughter 
of  the  Rev.  Andrew  Jeffrey,  of  Lochmaben. 
She  married  a  Mr.  Renwick,  of  New  York, 
and  died  in  October,  1850. 


I  GAED  a  waefu'  gate  yestreen, 

A  gate  I  fear  I  '11  dearly  rue : 
I  gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o'  bonie  blue  ! 
'T  was  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright, 

Her  lips  like  roses  wat  wi'  dew, 
Her  heaving  bosom  lily-white : 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonie  blue. 


She  talk'd,  she  smil'd,  my  heart  she  wyl'd. 

She  charm'd  my  soul  I  wist  na  how; 
And  ay  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound. 

Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonie  blue. 
But    "  spare     to     speak,    and     spare     to 
speed  "  — 

She  '11  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow: 
Should  she  refuse,  I  '11  lay  my  dead 

To  her  twa  een  sae  bonie  blue. 


THE    BANKS    OF    NITH 


The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea, 

Where  royal  cities  stately  stand; 
But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith  to  me, 

Where  Cummins  ance  had  high  command. 

When  shall  I  see  that  houor'd  land. 
That  winding  stream  I  love  so  dear  ? 

Must  wayward  Fortune's  adverse  hand 
For  ever  —  ever  keep  me  here  ? 


How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales, 

Where  bounding  hawthorns  gaily  bloom, 
And  sweetly  spread  thy  sloping  dales. 

Where  lambkins  wanton  thro'  the  broom! 

Tho'  wandring  now  must  be  my  doom 
Far  from  thy  bonie  banks  and  braes, 

May  there  my  latest  hours  consume 
Amang  my  friends  of  early  days  ! 


TAM    GLEN 


My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  tittie, 
Some  coimsel  unto  me  come  len'. 

To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pity. 

But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tam  Glen  ? 


I  'm  thinking,  wi'  sic  a  braw  fellow 
In  poortith  I  might  mak  a  fen'. 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow, 
If  I  mauna  marry  Tam  Glen  ? 

Ill 

There  's  Lowrie  the  laird  o'  Dumeller: 
"  Guid  day  to  you,"  brute  !  he  comes  ben. 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o'  his  siller. 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ? 

IV 

My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me, 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men. 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me  — 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen  ? 


My  daddie  says,  gin  I  '11  forsake  him, 
He  'd  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten. 


FRAE  THE  FRIENDS  AND  LAND  I  LOVE 


231 


But  if  it 's  ordain'd  I  mauu  take  him, 
O,  wha  will  I  get  but  Tarn  Glen  ? 


Yestreen  at  the  valentines'  dealing, 
My  heart  to  my  mou  gied  a  sten, 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  thrice  it  was  written  "  Tam  Glen  !  " 


The  last  Halloween  I  was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken  — 

His  likeness  came  up  the  house  staukiu. 
And  the  very  grey  breeks  o'  Tani  Glen  ! 


Come,  counsel,  dear  tittie,  don't  tarry  ! 

I  '11  gie  ye  my  bonie  black  hen, 
Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 

The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 


CRAIGIEBURN   WOOD 

"  It  is  remarkable  of  this  air,  that  it  is  the 
confine  of  that  country  where  the  greatest  part 
of  our  lowland  music  (so  far  as  from  the  title, 
words,  etc.,  we  can  localize  it)  has  been  com- 
posed. From  Craigiebum,  near  Moffat,  until 
one  reaches  the  West  Highlands,  we  have 
scarcely  one  slow  air  of  antiquity.  The  song 
was  composed  on  a  passion  which  a  Mr.  Gilles- 
pie, a  particular  friend  of  mine,  had  for  a  Miss 
Lorimer,  afterwards  a  Mrs.  Whepdale.  The 
young  lady  was  born  in  Craigieburn  Wood. 
The  chorus  is  part  of  an  old  foolish  ballad." 
(R.  B.)     For  Jean  Lorimer  see  post,  p.  289. 

CHORUS 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie, 
And  O,  to  be  lying  beyond  thee  ! 

O,  sweetly,  soundly,  weel  may  he  sleep 
That 's  laid  in  the  bed  beyond  thee  ! 


Sweet   closes  the  ev'ning  on  Craigieburn 
Wood 
And  blythely  awaukens  the  morrow; 
But  the  pride  o'  the  spring  on  the  Craigie- 
burn Wood 
Can  yield  me  naught  but  sorrow. 


I  see  the  spreading  leaves  and  flowers, 
I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing; 


But  pleasure  they  hae  nane  for  me, 
W^hile  care  my  heart  is  wringing. 


I  can  na  tell,  I  maun  na  tell, 
I  daur  na  for  your  anger; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 
If  I  conceal  it  langer. 


I  see  thee  gracefu',  straight,  and  tall, 
I  see  thee  sweet  and  bonie; 

But  O,  what  will  my  torment  be, 
If  thou  refuse  thy  Johnie  ! 


To  see  thee  in  another's  arms 

In  love  to  lie  and  languish, 
'T  wad  be  my  dead,  that  will  be  seen  — 

My  heart  wad  burst  wi'  anguish  ! 


But,  Jeanie,  say  thou  wilt  be  mine. 
Say  thou  lo'es  nane  before  me, 

And  a'  my  days  o'  life  to  come 
I  '11  gratefully  adore  thee. 


Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie. 
And  O,  to  be  lying  beyond  thee  ! 

O,  sweetly,  soundly,  weel  may  he  sleep 
That 's  laid  in  the  bed  beyond  thee  ! 


FRAE  THE  FRIENDS  AND  LAND 
I  LOVE 

"  I  added  the  four  last  lines  by  way  of  giv- 
ing a  turn  to  the  theme  of  the  poem,  such  as 
it  is."     (R.  B.) 


Frae  the  friends  and  land  I  love 

Driv'n  by  Fortune's  felly  spite, 
Frae  my  best  belov'd  I  rove. 

Never  mair  to  taste  delight ! 
Never  mair  maun  hope  to  find 

Ease  frae  toil,  relief  frae  care. 
When  remembrance  wracks  the  mind, 

Pleasures  but  unveil  despair. 


Brightest  climes  shall  mirk  appear, 
Desert  ilka  blooming  shore, 


232  SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


Till  the  Fates,  nae  mair  severe, 

Friendship,  love,  and  peace  restore: 

Till  Revenge  wi'  laurell'd  head 
Bring  our  banish'd  hame  again, 

And  ilk  loyal,  bonie  lad 

Cross  the  seas,  and  win  his  ain  ! 


O   JOHN,   COME    KISS   ME   NOW 

Altered  and  expanded  from  a  fragment  in 
Herd  (1769) :  — 

"  John,  come  kiss  me  now,  now,  now  ! 
O  John,  come  kiss  me  now  ! 
John,  come  kiss  me  by  and  by, 
And  make  nae  mair  ado  ! 

"  Some  will  court  and  compliment 
And  make  a  great  ado, 
Some  wUl  make  of  their  guidman, 
And  aae  will  I  of  you." 

CHORUS 

O  John,  come  kiss  me  now,  now,  now  ! 
O  John,  my  love,  come  kiss  me  now  ! 

O  John,  come  kiss  me  by  and  by. 
For  weel  ye  ken  the  way  to  woo  ! 


O,  SOME  will  court  and  compliment, 
And  ither  some  will  kiss  and  daut; 

But  I  will  mak  o'  my  guidman, 
My  ain  guidman  —  it  is  nae  f  aut ! 


O,  some  will  court  and  compliment. 
And  ither  some  will  prie  their  mou'. 

And  some  will  hause  in  ither's  arms, 
And  that 's  the  way  I  like  to  do  ! 

CHORUS 

O  John,  come  kiss  me  now,  now,  now  ! 
O  John,  my  love,  come  kiss  me  now  ! 

O  John,  come  kiss  me  by  and  by, 
For  weel  ye  ken  the  way  to  woo  ! 


COCK   UP   YOUR   BEAVER 


When  first  my  brave  Johnie  lad  came  to 

this  town. 
He   had  a   blue  bonnet  that   wanted  the 

crown, 


But  now  he  has  gotten  a  hat  and  a  fea- 
ther — 

Hey,  brave  Johnie  lad,  cock  up  your  bea- 
ver ! 


Cock  up  your  beaver,  and  cock  it  fu' 
sprush  ! 

We  '11  over  the  border  and  gie  them  a 
brush : 

There  's  somebody  there  we  '11  teach  better 
haviour  — 

Hey,  brave  Johnie  lad,  cock  up  your  bea- 
ver ! 


MY  TOCHER  'S   THE   JEWEL 


O,  MEIKLE  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty. 
And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  kin; 

But  little  thinks  my  luve  I  ken  brawlie 
My  tocher 's  the  jewel  has  charms  for 
him. 

It 's  a'  for  the  apple  he  '11  nourish  the  tree, 

It 's  a'  for  the  hiney  he  '11  cherish  the  bee  ! 
My  laddie  's  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi'  the 
siller, 

He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me  ! 


Your  proffer  o'  luve  's  an  airle-penny. 

My  tocher  's  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy; 
But  an  ye  be  crafty,  I  am  cunnin, 

Sae  je  with  anither  your  fortune  may 
try. 
Ye  're   like   to   the   timmer  o'  yon  rotten 
wood. 
Ye  're  like  to  the  bark  o'  yon  rotten  tree: 
Ye  '11  slip  frae  me  like  a  knotless  thread. 
An'  ye  '11  crack  ye  're  credit  wi'  mair  nor 
me  ! 


GUIDWIFE,  COUNT  THE  LAWIN 

"  The  chorns  of  this  is  part  of  an  old  song, 
one  stanza  of  which  I  recollect :  — 

'  Every  day  my  wife  tells  me 
That  ale  and  brandy  will  ruin  me  ; 
But  if  glide  liquor  be  my  dead, 
This  shall  be  written  on  my  head  — 
Landlady,  count  the  lawin,'  "  etc. 

(R.B.) 


I 


WHAT   CAN   A   YOUNG   LASSIE 


233 


CHORUS 


Then,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin, 
The  lawin,  the  lawin  ! 

Then,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin. 

And  bring  a  coggie  mair  ! 


Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk  's  the  night. 
But  we  '11  ne'er  stray  for  faut  o'  light. 
For  ale  and  brandy  's  stars  and  moon. 
And  blude-red  wine  's  the  risiu  sun. 


There 's  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen. 
And  semple  folk  maun  fecht  and  fen'; 
But  here  we  're  a'  in  ae  accord. 
For  ilka  man  that 's  drunk  's  a  lord. 


My  coggie  is  a  haly  pool, 

That  heals  the  wounds  o'  care  and  dool, 

And  Pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout: 

An  ye  drink  it  a',  ye  '11  find  him  out  ! 

CHORUS 

Then,  guidwife,  count  the  la^vin, 
The  lawin,  the  lawin  ! 

Then,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin, 

And  bring  a  coggie  mair  ! 


THERE  'LL     NEVER     BE     PEACE 
TILL  JAMIE    COMES    HAME 

Bums  enclosed  a  copy  ("  a  song  of  my  late 
composition")  to  Alexander  Cunningham,  11th 
March,  1791 :  "  You  must  know  a  beautiful 
Jacobite  air — There ''II  Never  he  Peace  till 
Jamie  Comes  Hame.  When  political  combus- 
tion ceases  to  be  the  object  of  Princes  and  Pa- 
triots it  then,  you  know,  becomes  the  lawful 
prey  of  Historians  and  Poets."  No  doubt  there 
was  an  old  .Jacobite  song  with  this  title ;  but 
the  air  and  the  title  were  all  that  Burns  knew, 
and  no  authentic  copy  of  the  thing  itself  is 
known  to  survive. 


By  yon  castle  wa'  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
I  heard  a  man  sing,  tho'   his  head  it  was 

grey, 
And   as  he  was   singing,   the   tears   doon 

came:  — 
"  There  '11  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 

hame  ! 


"  The  Church  is  in  ruins,  the   State  is  in 

jars. 
Delusions,     oppressions,     and     murderous 

wars. 
We  dare  na  weel  say  't,  but  we  ken  wha  's 

to  blame  — 
There  '11  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 

hame  ! 


"  My    seven    braw   sons   for   Jamie    drew 

sword. 
But  now  I  greet  round  their  green  beds  in 

the  yerd; 
It  brak  the  sweet  heart  o'  my  faithfu'  auld 

dame  — 
There  '11  never  be  peace  tiU  Jamie  comes 

hame  ! 


"  Now  life  is  a  burden  that  bows  me  down. 
Sin  I  tint  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his  crown; 
But  till  my  last  moments  my  words  are  the 

same  — 
There  '11  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 

hame ! " 


WHAT    CAN   A  YOUNG   LASSIE 


What  can  a  young  lassie, 
What  shall  a  young  lassie, 
What  can  a  young  lassie 

Do  wi'  an  auld  man  ? 
Bad  luck  on  the  penny 
That  tempted  my  miiniie 
To  sell  her  puir  Jenny 

For  siller  an'  Ian'  ! 


He 's  always  compleenin 
Frae  mornin  to  eenin; 
He  boasts  and  he  hirples 

The  weary  day  lang; 
He  's  uoylt  and  he  's  dozin; 
His  blude  it  is  frozen  — 
O,  dreary  's  the  night 

Wi'  a  crazy  auld  man  ! 


He  hums  and  he  hankers, 
He  frets  and  he  cankers, 


234 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


I  never  can  please  him 

Do  a'  that  I  can. 
He  's  peevish  an'  jealous 
Of  a'  the  young  fellows  — 
O,  dool  ou  the  day 

I  met  wi'  an  auld  man  ! 

IV 

My  auld  auntie  Katie 
Upon  me  taks  pity, 
I  '11  do  my  endeavour 

To  follow  her  plan: 
I  '11  cross  him  an'  wrack  him 
Until  I  heartbreak  him, 
And  then  his  auld  brass 

Will  buy  me  a  new  pan. 


THE    BONIE 


LAD    THAT  'S    FAR 

AWA 


It  is  supposed  to  refer  to  old  Armour's  ex- 
trusion of  his  daughter  in  the  winter  of  1788. 


O,  HOW  can  I  be  blythe  and  glad, 
Or  how  can  I  gang  brisk  and  braw, 

When  the  bonie  lad  that  I  lo'e  best 
Is  o'er  the  hills  and  far  awa  ? 


It 's  no  the  frosty  winter  wind, 

It's  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw; 

But  ay  the  tear  comes  in  my  e'e 
To  think  on  him  that 's  far  awa. 

Ill 

My  father  pat  me  frae  Lis  door. 

My  friends  they  hae  disown'd  me  a'; 

But  I  hae  ane  will  tak  my  part  — 
The  bonie  lad  that 's  far  awa. 

IV 

A  pair  o'  glooves  he  bought  to  me. 
And  silken  snoods  he  gae  me  twa, 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 
The  bonie  lad  that 's  far  awa. 


O,  weary  Winter  soon  will  pass, 

And  Spring  will  deed  the  birken  shaw. 

And  my  sweet  babie  will  be  born, 
And  he  '11  be  hame  that 's  far  awa  ? 


I  DO  CONFESS  THOU  ART  SAE 
FAIR 

"  This  song  is  altered  from  a  poem  by  Sir 
Robert  Ayton,  private  secretary  to  Mary  and 
Anne,  Queens  of  Scotlaud.  The  poem  is  to  be 
found  in  Watsoyi's  Collection  of  Scots  Poems,  tlio 
earliest  collection  published  in  Scotland.  1 
think  that  I  have  improved  the  simplicity  of 
the  sentiments  by  giving  them  a  Scots  dress." 
(R.  B.) 


I  DO  confess  thou  art  sae  fair, 

I  wad  been  o'er  the  lugs  in  luve, 
Had  I  na  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lips  could   speak   thy  heart  could 
muve. 
I  do  confess  thee  sweet,  but  find 

Thou  art  so  thriftless  o'  thy  sweets, 
Thy  favours  are  the  silly  wind 

That  kisses  ilka  thing  it  meets. 


See  yonder  rosebud  rich  in  dew, 

Amang  its  native  briers  sae  coy. 
How  sune  it  tines  its  scent  and  hue, 

When  pu'd  and  worn  a  common  toy  ! 
Sic  fate  ere  lang  shall  thee  betide, 

Tho'  thou  may  gaily  bloom  awhile, 
And  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside, 

Like  onie  common  weed,  an'  vile. 


SENSIBILITY   HOW   CHARMING 


Sensibility  bow  charming. 

Thou,  my  friend,  can'st  truly  tell  ! 

But  Distress  with  horrors  arming 
Thou  alas  !  hast  known  too  well ! 


Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily 
Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray: 

Let  the  blast  sweep  o'er  the  valley, 
See  it  prostrate  in  the  clay. 


Hear  the  woodlark  charm  the  forest, 
Telling  o'er  his  little  joys; 

But  alas  !  a  prey  the  surest 
To  each  pirate  of  the  skies  ! 


IT   IS   NA,    JEAN,  THY   BONIE   FACE 


235 


Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure 
Finer  feelings  can  bestow : 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe. 


•    YON  WILD    MOSSY   MOUNTAINS 

"  The  song  alludes  to  a  part  of  my  private 
history  which  is  of  no  consequence  to  the 
world  to  know."     (R.  B.) 

In  July,  1793,  he  recommended  it  to  Thom- 
son as  suitable  to  the  air  of  There  HI  Never  be 
Peace  till  Jamie  Comes  Hame,  if  he  objected 
to  the  Jacobite  sentiments  of  that  song.  It  is 
held  by  some  to  refer  to  Mary  Campbell ;  but 
Bums  occasionally  visited  a  peasant-girl  near 
V      Covington,  Lanarkshire. 


Yox  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and 

wide, 
That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the  youth  o'  the 

Clyde, 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro' 

the  heather  to  feed, 
And   the  shepherd   tents   his   flock  as   he 

pipes  on  his  reed. 


Not  Gowrie's  rich  valley  nor  Forth's  sunny 

shores 
To  me  hae  the  charms  o'  yon  wild,  mossy 

moors ; 
For  there,  by  a  lanely,  sequestered  stream, 
Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  ray  thought  and  my 

dream. 

Ill 

Amang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still  be 

my  path. 
Ilk  stream   foaming   down   its   ain   green, 

narrow  strath; 
For  there  wi'  my  lassie  the  lang  day  I  rove, 
While  o'er  us  unheeded  file  the  swift  hours 

o'  love. 


She  is  not  the  fairest,  altho'  she  is  fair; 
O'  nice  education  but  sma'  is  her  share; 
Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be; 
But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because  she  lo'es 


To  Beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield  him 

a  prize. 
In  her  armour  of  glances,  and  blushes,  and 

sighs  ? 
And  when  Wit  and  Refinement  hae  polish'd 

her  darts. 
They  dazzle   our  een,  as  they  flie  to  our 

hearts. 

VI 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond- 
sparkling  e'e 

Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me, 

And  the  heart  beating  love  as  I  'm  clasp'd 
in  her  arms, 

O,  these  are  my  lassie's  all  -  conquering 
charms  ! 


I    HAE   BEEN    AT   CROOKIEDEN 


I  HAE  been  at  Crookieden  — 

My  bonie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ! 
Viewing  Willie  and  his  men  — 

My  bonie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ! 
There  our  foes  that  burnt  and  slew  — • 

My  bonie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ! 
There  at  last  they  gat  their  due  — 

My  bonie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ! 


Satan  sits  in  his  black  neuk  — 

My  bonie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ! 
Breaking  sticks  to  roast  the  Duke  — 

My  bonie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ! 
The  bloody  monster  gae  a  yell  — 

My  bonie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ! 
And  loud  the  laugh  gaed  round  a'  Hell  ■ 

My  bonie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ! 


IT  IS  NA,  JEAN,  THY  BONIE  FACE 

I 

It  is  ua,  Jean,  thy  bonie  face 

Nor  shape  that  I  admire, 
Altho'  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace 

Might  weel  awauk  desire. 


236 


SONGS    FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


Something  in  ilka  part  o'  thee 
To  praise,  to  love,  I  find; 

But,  dear  as  is  thy  form  to  me, 
Still  dearer  is  thy  mind. 


Nae  mair  ungen'rous  wish  I  hae, 

Nor  stronger  in  my  breast. 
Than,  if  I  canna  mak  thee  sae, 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest: 
Content  am  I,  if  Heaven  shall  give 

But  happiness  to  thee. 
And,  as  wi'  thee  I  wish  to  live, 

For  thee  I  'd  bear  to  dee. 


MY    EPPIE   MACNAB 


O,  SAW  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  Macnab  ? 
O,  saw  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  Macnab  ? 
*'  She  's  down  in  the  yard,  she  's  kissin 

the  laird, 
She   vsdnna  come   hame   to  her  aiu  Jock 

Rab  ! " 


O,  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my  Eppie  Mac- 
nab ! 

O,  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my  Eppie  Mac- 
nab ! 
Whate'er  thou  has  done,  be  it  late,  be  it 
soon. 

Thou  's  welcome  again  to  thy  ain  Jock  Rab. 

in 
What  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  Mac- 
nab ? 
What  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  Mac- 
nab ? 
"  She  lets  thee  to  wit  that  she  has  thee 
forgot, 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  ain  Jock 
Rab." 

IV 

O,  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie  Mac- 
nab ! 

O,  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie  Mac- 
nab ! 
As  light  as  the  air  and  as  fause  as  thou  's 
fair. 

Thou  's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  ain  Jock 
Rab! 


WHA    IS   THAT   AT    MY    BOWER 
DOOR 

Without  any  manner  of  doubt,  Bums's  ori- 
ginal was  Who  But  I,  quoth  Finlay,  "a  new 
song,  much  in  request,  sung  with  its  own  proper 
tune.' ' 

I 

"  Wha  is  that  at  my  bower  door  ?  " 

"  O,  wha  is  it  but  Findlay  !  " 
"  Then  gae  your  gate,  ye  'se  nae  be  here." 

"  Indeed  maun  I !  "  quo'  Findlay. 
"  What  mak  ye,  sae  like  a  thief  ?  " 

"  O,  come  and  see  !  "  quo'  Findlay. 
"  Before  the  morn  ye  '11  work  mischief  ?  " 

"  Indeed  will  I !  "  quo'  Findlay. 


"  Gif  I  rise  and  let  you  in  "  — 

"  Let  me  in  !  "  quo'  Findlay  — 
"  Ye  '11  keep  me  wauken  wi'  your  din  ?  " 

"  Indeed  will  I !  "  quo'  Findlay. 
"  In  my  bower  if  ye  should  stay  "  — 

"  Let  me  stay  !  "  quo'  Findlay  — 
"  I  fear  ye  '11  bide  till  break  o'  day  ?  " 

"  Indeed  will  I !  "  quo'  Findlay. 


"  Here  this  night  if  ye  remain  "  — 

"  I  '11  remain  !  "  quo'  Findlay  — 
"  I  dread  ye  '11  learn  the  gate  again  ?  " 

"  Indeed  will  I !  "  quo'  Findlay. 
"  What  may  pass  within  this  bower  " 

("  Let  it  pass  !  "  quo'  Findlay  !) 
"  Ye  maun  conceal  till  your  last  hour  "  — 

"  Indeed  will  I  ! "  quo'  Findlay. 


BONIE   WEE   THING 

"  Composed  on  my  little  idol  — '  the  charm- 
ing lovely  Davies.'  "     (R.  B.)  . 

Miss  Debora  Davies,  daughter  of  Dr.  Davies 
of  Tenby,  Pembrokeshire,  and  a  relative  of 
Captain  Riddell,  was  jilted  by  one  Captain 
Delany,  and  died  of  a  decline.  See  further, 
ante,  p.  187,  Epigram  On  Miss  Davies,  and  the 
song  Lovely  Davies,  post,  p.  2.37. 

CHORUS 
Bonie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom 

Lest  my  jewel  it  should  tine. 


I 


LOVELY   DAVIES 


237 


Wishfully  I  look  and  languish 
In  that  honie  face  o'  thine, 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguish, 
Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 


Wit  and  Grace  and  Love  and  Beauty 

In  ae  constellation  shine  ! 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty, 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine  ! 

CHORUS 

Bouie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 

I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom 
Lest  my  jewel  it  should  tine. 


THE   TITHER   MORN 


The  tither  morn,  when  I  forlorn 

Aneath  an  aik  sat  moaning, 
I  did  na  trow  I  'd  see  my  jo 

Beside  me  gin  the  gloaming. 
But  he  sae  trig  lap  o'er  the  rig, 

And  dawtingly  did  cheer  me, 
When  I,  what  reck,  did  least  expeck 

To  see  my  lad  sae  near  me  ! 


His  bonnet  he  a  thought  ajee 

Cock'd   sprush  when   first   he    clasp'd 
me; 
And  I,  I  wat,  wi'  fainness  grat, 
While  in  his  grips  he  press'd  me. 
"  Deil  tak  the  war  ! "  I  late  and  air 
Hae  wish'd  since  Jock  departed; 
But  now  as  glad  I  'm  wi'  my  lad 
As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 

Ill 

Fu'  aft  at  e'en,  wi'  dancing  keen. 

When  a'  were  blythe  and  merry, 
I  car'd  na  by,  sae  sad  was  I 

In  absence  o'  my  deary. 
But  praise  be  blest  !  my  mind  's  at  rest, 

I  'm  happy  wi'  my  Johnie  ! 
At  kirk  and  fair,  I  'se  ay  be  there, 

And  be  as  canty  's  ouie. 


AE    FOND    KISS 

The  germ  of  Ae  Fond  Kiss  is  found  in  The 
Parting  Kiss,  by  Robert  Dodsley  (1106-llQ-i), 
which  was  set  by  Oswald  :  — 

"  One  fond  kiss  before  we  part, 
Drop  a  Tear  and  bid  adieu; 
Tho'  we  sever,  my  fond  Heart 
Till  we  meet  shall  pant  for  you,"  etc. 

It  finishes  with  a  repeat  of  the  two  first  lines. 


Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ! 
Ae  farewell,  and  then  forever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me, 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 


I  '11  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy: 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy  ! 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her. 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted  — 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Ill 

Fare-the-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest  ! 

Fare-the-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 

Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  Enjoyment,  Love  and  Pleasure  ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ! 

Ae  farewell,  alas,  for  ever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage  thee. 


LOVELY   DAVIES 

For  Miss  Davies,  see  ante,  p.  236,  Prefatory 
Note  to  Bonie  Wee  Thing. 


O,  HOW  shall  I,  unskilfu',  try 

The  Poet's  occupation  ? 
The  tunefu'  Powers,  in  happy  hours 

That  whisper  inspiration, 


238 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


Even  they  maun  dare  an  effort  mair 
Than  aught  they  ever  gave  us, 

Ere  they  rehearse  in  equal  verse 
The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 


Each  eye,  it  cheers,  when  she  appears, 

Like  Phcebus  in  the  morning. 
When  past  the  shower,  and  every  flower 

The  garden  is  adorning  ! 
As  the  wretch  looks  o'er  Siberia's  shore. 

When  winter-bound  the  wave  is, 
Sae    droops   our    heart,    when    we    maun 
part 

Frae  charming,  lovely  Davies. 


Her  smile  's  a  gift  frae  'boon  the  lift 

That  maks  us  mair  than  princes. 
A  sceptred  hand,  a  king's  command, 

Is  in  her  darting  glances. 
The  man  in  arms  'gainst  female  charms. 

Even  he  her  willing  slave  is: 
He  hugs  his  chain,  and  owns  the  reign 

Of  conquering  lovely  Davies. 


My  Muse  to  dream  of  such  a  theme 

Her  feeble  powers  surrenders; 
The  eagle's  gaze  alone  surveys 

The  sun's  meridian  splendours. 
I  wad  in  vain  essay  the  strain  — 

The  deed  too  daring  brave  is  ! 
I  '11  drap  the  lyre,  and,  mute,  admire 

The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 


THE   WEARY   FUND    O'   TOW 


CHORUS 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 
The  weary  pvmd  o'  tow  ! 

I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  her  tow. 


I  BOUGHT  my  wife  a  stane  o'  lint 
As  guid  as  e'er  did  grow. 

And  a'  that  she  has  made  o'  that 
Is  ae  puir  pund  o'  tow. 


There  sat  a  bottle  in  a  bole 
Beyont  the  ingle  low; 

And  ay  she  took  the  tither  souk 
To  drouk  the  stourie  tow. 


Quoth  I:  —  "  For  shame,  ye  dirty  dame, 

Gae  spin  your  tap  o'  tow  !  " 
She  took  the  rock,  and  wi'  a  knock 

She  brake  it  o'er  my  pow. 


At  last  her  feet  —  I  sang  to  see  't  !  — 
Gaed  foremost  o'er  the  kuowe, 

And  or  I  wad  anither  jad, 
I  '11  wallop  in  a  tow. 

CHORUS 
The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund. 

The  weary  pund  o'  tow  ! 
I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 

Before  she  spin  her  tow. 


I    HAE   A   WIFE    O'   MY   AIN 
Made  a  few  days  after  his  marriage. 


I  HAE  a  wife  o'  my  ain, 
I  '11  partake  wi'  naebody: 

I  '11  take  cuckold  frae  nane, 
I'll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody. 


I  hae  a  penny  to  spend. 

There  —  thanks  to  naebody  ! 

I  hae  naething  to  lend, 
I  '11  borrow  frae  naebody. 


I  am  naebody's  lord, 

I  '11  be  slave  to  naebody. 

I  hae  a  guid  braid  sword, 
I  '11  tak  dunts  frae  naebody. 


I  '11  be  merry  and  free, 
I  '11  be  sad  for  naebody. 

Naebody  cares  for  me, 
I  care  for  naebody. 


O,   KENMURE  'S   ON   AND   AW  A,   WILLIE 


239 


WHEN    SHE    CAM    BEN,  SHE 
BOBBED 


O,  WHEN  she  cam  ben,  she  bobbed  fu' 
law ! 

0,  when  she  cam   ben,  she  bobbed   fu' 
law  ! 
And  when  she  cam'  ben,  she  kiss'd  Cock- 
pen, 

And  syne  she  deny'd  she  did  it  at  a' ! 


And  was  na  Cockpen  right  saucy  witba'  ? 
And  was  na  Cockpen  right  saucy  witha', 
In  leaving  the  dochter  o'  a  lord, 
And  kissin  a  collier  lassie  an'  a'  ? 


O,  never  look  down,  my  lassie,  at  a' ! 
O,  never  look  down,  my  lassie,  at  a'  ! 
Thy  lips  are  as  sweet,  and  thy  figure  com- 
plete. 
As  the  finest  dame  in  castle  or  ha'. 


"  Tho'  thou  hast  nae  silk,  and  hoUand  sae 

sma', 
Tho'  thou  hast  nae  silk,  and  hoUand  sae 

sma', 
Thy  coat  and  thy  sark  are  thy  ain  handy- 

wark, 
And  Lady  Jean  was  never  sae  braw." 


O,   FOR   ANE-AND-TWENTY, 
TAM 

CHORUS 

An'  O,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 

And  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 
I  '11  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin  sang 

An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


They  snool  me  sair,  and  baud  me  down, 
And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tam; 

But    three    short   years    will    soon   wheel 
roun'  — 
And  then  comes  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 

11 
A  gleib  o'  Ian',  a  claut  o'  gear 
Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam. 


At  kith  or  kin  I  needna  spier. 
An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


Ill 


They  '11  hae  me  wed  a  wealthy  coof , 
Tho'  I  mysel  hae  plenty,  Tam; 

But  hear'st  thou,  laddie  —  there  's  my  loof : 
I  'm  thine  at  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 


An'  O,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 

And  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 
I  '11  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin  sang 

An  I  saw  aue-aud-twenty,  Tam. 


O,  KENMURE 'S   ON  AND  AW  A, 
WILLIE 

William  Gordon,  sixth  Viscount  Kenmure, 
took  up  the  Jacobite  cause  in  1715,  —  mainly 
through  the  persuasion  of  his  wife,  Mary, 
daughter  of  Robert  Dalyell,  sixth  Earl  of  Carn- 
Avath,  —  and  got  Mars  commission  to  command 
the  forces  in  the  south.  After  divers  ineffec- 
tive moves  he  passed  into  England,  and,  being 
taken  prisoner  at  Preston  on  14th  November, 
was  beheaded  on  Towerhill  on  24th  February, 
1716. 


O,  Kenjiure  's  on  and  awa,  Willie, 
O,  Kenmure  's  on  and  awa  ! 

An'  Kenmure  's  lord  's  the  bravest  lord 
That  ever  Galloway  saw  ! 


Success  to  Kenmure's  band,  Willie, 

Success  to  Kenmure's  band  ! 
There  's  no  a  heart  that  fears  a  Whig 

That  rides  by  Kenmure's  hand. 

Ill 

Here 's  Kenmure's  health  in  wine,  Willie, 
Here  's  Kenmure's  health  in  wine  ! 

There  ne'er  was  a  coward  o'  Kenmure's 
blude, 
Nor  yet  o'  Gordon's  line. 


O,  Kenmure's  lads  are  men,  Willie, 
O,  Kenmure's  lads  are  men  ! 

Their  hearts  and  swords  are  metal  true, 
And  that  their  faes  shall  ken. 


240 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


They  '11  live  or  die  wi'  fame,  Willie, 
They  '11  live  or  die  wi'  fame  ! 

But  soon  wi'  sounding  victorie 
May  Kenmure's  lord  come  hame  ! 


Here 's  him  that 's  far  awa,  Willie, 
Here  's  him  that 's  far  awa  ! 

And  here  's  the  flower  that  I  lo'e  best  - 
The  rose  that 's  like  the  snaw  ! 


O,   LEEZE    ME  ON   MY  SPINNIN- 
WHEEL 

One  of  the  best  and  the  most  Bumsian  of 
Bums's  vamps,  this  charming  song  was  no 
doubt  suggested  by  The  Loving  Lass  and  Spin- 
ning-wheel in  Ramsay's  Tea-Table  Miscellany, 
which  Ramsay  must  have  imitated  from  an  old 
blackletter  broadside  (Pepys  Collection),  ''  The 
Sonny  Scott  and  the  Yielditig  Lass,  to  an  excel- 
lent new  Tune  :  "  — 

"  As  I  sate  at  my  spinniiig- wheel 
A  bonny  lad  there  passed  by, 
I  keen'd  him  round,  and  I  lik'd  him  weel, 
Geud  faith  he  had  a  bony  eye  : 

My  heart  new  panting  'gan  to  feel, 

But  still  I  turned  my  spinning-wheel,"  etc. 


O,  LEEZE  me  on  my  spinnin-wheel  \ 
And  leeze  me  on  my  rock  and  reel, 
Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien, 
And  haps  me  fiel  and  warm  at  e'en  ! 
I  '11  set  me  down,  and  sing  and  spin, 
While  laigh  descends  the  summer  sun, 
Blest  wi'  content,  and  milk  and  meal  — 
O,  leeze  me  on  my  spinnin-wheel ! 


On  ilka  hand  the  burnies  trot, 
And  meet  below  my  theekit  cot. 
The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite. 
Alike  to  screen  the  birdie's  nest 
And  little  fishes'  caller  rest. 
The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  biel. 
Where  blythe  I  turn  my  spinnin-wheel. 

Ill 

On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats  wail. 
And  Echo  cons  the  doolfu'  tale. 


The  lintwhites  in  the  hazel  braes, 
Delighted,  rival  ither's  lays. 
The  craik  amaug  the  claver  hay, 
The  paitrick  whirriu  o'er  the  ley, 
The  swallow  jinkin  round  my  shiel, 
Amuse  me  at  my  spinnin-wheel. 


Wi'  sma  to  sell  and  less  to  buy, 
Aboon  distress,  below  envf, 
O,  wha  wad  leave  this  humble  state 
For  a'  the  pride  of  a'  the  great  ? 
Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys. 
Amid  their  cumbrous,  dinsome  joys, 
Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinnin-wheel  ? 


MY   COLLIER   LADDIE 


"  I  do  not  know  a  blyther  old  song   than 
this."     (R.  B.) 


"  O,  WHARE  live  ye,  my  bonie  lass. 
And  tell  me  how  they  ca'  ye  ?  " 

"  My  name,"  she  says,  "  is  Mistress  Jean, 
And  I  follow  the  collier  laddie." 


"  O,  see  you  not  yon  hills  and  dales 
The  sun  shines  on  sae  brawlie  ? 

They  a'  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be  thine, 
Gin  ye  'II  leave  your  collier  laddie  ! 


"  An'  ye  shall  gang  in  gay  attire, 

Weel  buskit  up  sae  gaudy. 
And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand, 

Gin  ye  '11  leave  your  collier  laddie  ! " 


"  Tho'  ye  had  a'  the  sun  shines  on, 
And  the  earth  conceals  sae  lowly, 

I  wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a', 
And  embrace  my  collier  laddie. 


"  I  can  win  my  five  pennies  in  a  day, 
An'  spend  it  at  night  f u'  brawlie. 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  collier's  neuk 
And  lie  down  wi'  my  collier  laddie. 


I 


IN    SIMMER,    WHEN    THE   HAY   WAS    MAWN 


241 


VI 

"  Loove  for  loove  is  the  bargain  for  me, 
Tho'  the  wee  cot-house  should  haud  me. 

And   the    warld    before   me    to    win    my 
bread  — 
And  fair  fa'  my  collier  laddie  !  " 


NITHSDALE'S    WELCOME    HAME 

Lady  Winifred  Maxwell  Constable  (1735- 
1801 )  was  sole  surviving  child  of  William  Lord 
Maxwell,  son  of  WiUiam,  fifth  Earl  of  Niths- 
dale,  who  was  sentenced  to  decapitation  on 
Towerhill,  24th  February,  1710,  for  his  share  in 
the  Fifteen,  but  escaped  the  night  before  the 
execution.  She  married  William  Haggerston 
Constable  of  Everinghame,  and  began  rebuild- 
ing the  old  family  mansion,  Terreagies,  or 
Terregles,  Kirkcudbrightshire,  in  1789.  Burns 
has  stated,  for  the  sake  of  "  vive  la  bagatelle,'^ 
that  his  Jacobitism  was  mostly  matter  of  sport. 
But,  in  a  letter  of  the  16th  December,  1789, 
he,  as  Sir  Walter  put  it,  plays  "  high  Jacobite 
to  that  singular  old  curmudgeon  Lady  Wini- 
fred Constable  :  "  roimdly  asserting  that  they 
were  "  common  sufferers  in  a  cause  where  even 
to  be  unfortunate  is  glorious,  the  cause  of 
heroic  loyalty  ;  "  and  that  his  forefathers,  like 
her  own,  had  shaken  "hands  with  ruin  for 
what  they  esteemed  the  cause  of  their  King 
and  country." 


The  noble  Maxwells  and  their  powers 

Are  coming  o'er  the  border; 
And  they  '11  gae  big  Terreagies'  towers, 

And  set  them  a'  in  order; 
And  they  declare  Terreagies  fair, 

For  their  abode  they  choose  it: 
There  's  no  a  heart  in  a'  the  land 

But 's  liarhter  at  the  news  o't ! 


Tho'  stars  in  skies  may  disappear, 

And  angry  tempests  gather. 
The  happy  hour  may  soon  be  near 

That  brings  us  pleasant  weather; 
The  weary  night  o'  care  and  grief 

May  hae  a  joyfu'  morrow; 
So  dawning  day  has  brought  relief  - 

Fareweel  our  night  o'  sorrow  ! 


IN    SIMMER,   WHEN    THE   HAY 
WAS    MAWN 


In  simmer,  when  the  hay  was  mawn 
And  corn  wav'd  green  in  ilka  field, 

While  elaver  blooms  white  o'er  the  ley, 
And  roses  blaw  in  ilka  bield, 
Blythe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel 

Says:  —  "  I  '11  be  wed,  come  o't  what  will !  " 
Out  spake  a  dame  in  wrinkled  eild:  — 

"  O'  guid  advisement  comes  nae  ill. 


"  It 's  ye  hae  wooers  monie  ane, 

And  lassie,  ye  're  but  young,  ye  ken  ! 
Then  wait  a  wee,  and  cauuie  wale 

A  routhie  butt,  a  routhie  ben. 

There  Johuie  o'  the  Buskie-Glen, 
Fu'  is  his  barn,  fu'  is  his  byre. 

Tak  this  frae  me,  my  bonie  hen: 
It's  plenty  beets  the  luver's  fire  !  " 


"  For  Johnie  o'  the  Buskie-Gleu 

I  dinua  care  a  single  flie : 
He  lo'es  sae  weel  his  craps  and  kye, 

He  has  nae  love  to  spare  for  me. 

But  blythe  's  the  blink  o'  Robie's  e'e, 
And  weel  I  wat  he  lo'es  me  dear: 

Ae  blink  o'  him  I  wad  na  gie 
For  Buskie-Glen  and  a'  his  gear." 


"O  thoughtless  lassie,  life's  a  fanght ! 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair. 
But  ay  fu'-han't  is  fechtin  best: 

A  hungry  care  's  an  unco  care. 

But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare, 
An'  wilfu'  folk  maun  hae  their  will. 

Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair. 
Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill  !  " 


"  O,  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o'  land, 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye  ! 
But  the  tender  heart  o'  leesome  loove 

The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buj^  ! 

We  may  be  poor,  Robie  and  I; 
Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on; 

Content  and  loove  brings  peace  and  joy: 
What  mair  hae  Queens  upon  a  throne  ?  " 


242 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL  MUSEUM 


FAIR   ELIZA 


Two  copies  in  Burns's  hand  are  in  the  Hastie 
CoUection.     In  the  earlier  the  lady's  name  is 
Kobina.     According  to  Stenhouse,  she  was     a 
voun-  lady  to  whom  Mr.  Hunter   a  friend  of 
Mr   Burns,  was  much  attached."     Hunter  died 
shortly  after  going   to  Jamaica.     The   verses 
appear,  however,  to  have  been  wntten  on  some 
lidy  suggested   by   Johnson:    'So  much   for 
your  Robiua  -  how  do  you  like  the  verses  ?    I 
assure  you  I  have  tasked  my  muse  to  the  top 
of  her   performing.     Ho^vever,  the  song  ^iU 
not  sing  toTour  tune  in  Macdonald  s  Collection 
of  Hi-hland  Airs,  which  is  much  admired  m 
this  country;  I  intended  the  verses  to  be  sung 
to  that  air.     It  is  in  page  l.th  and  Jso.  112. 
There  is  another  air  in  the  same  collection,  an 
ArgA-leshire  Air,  which,  with  a  trying  alter- 
ation, will  do  charmingly."     (K.  B.  to  John- 

^*^  Johnson  set  the  words  to  both  these  tunes. 


Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza  ! 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part  ! 
Rew  on  thy  despairing  lover  — 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithfu  heart  .'' 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza  ! 

If  to  love  thy  heart  denies, 
For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 

Under  friendship's  kind  disguise  ! 


Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I  offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee. 
Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever, 

Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ? 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom. 

Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe. 
Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow  ! 

Ill 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom 

In  the  pride  o'  sinny  noon. 
Not  the  little  sporting  fairy 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon, 
Not  the  Poet  in  the  moment 

Fancy  lightens  in  his  e'e, 
Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture. 

That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 


YE   JACOBITES    BY    NAME 


Ye  Jacobites  by  name. 

Give  an  ear,  give  an  ear  ! 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name, 

Give  an  ear  ! 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name. 
Your  fautes  I  will  proclaim. 
Your  doctrines  I  maun  blame  — 
You  shall  hear  ! 

II 
What  is  Right,  and  what  is  Wrang, 

By  the  law,  by  the  law  ? 
What  is  Right,  and  what  is  Wrang, 

By  the  law  ? 
What  is  Right,  and  what  is  Wrang  ? 
A  short  sword  and  a  lang, 
A  weak  arm  and  a  Strang 
For  to  draw  ! 

Ill 

What  makes  heroic  strife 

Famed  afar,  famed  afar  ? 
What  makes  heroic  strife 

Famed  afar  ? 
What  makes  heroic  strife  ? 
To  whet  th'  assassin's  knife, 
Or  hunt  a  Parent's  life 
Wi'  bluidy  war  ! 


Then  let  your  schemes  alone, 

In  the  State,  in  the  State  ! 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone, 

In  the  State  ! 
Then  let  your  schemes  alone, 
Adore  the  rising  sun, 
And  leave  a  man  undone 

To  his  fate  ! 


THE    POSIE 

«  The  Posie  in  the  Museum  is  my  composi- 
tion -.  the  air  was  taken  down  from  Mrs. 
Burns's  voice.  It  is  well  known  ^^  the  ^^^^ 
country  ;but  the  old  words  are  trash.  (Burns 
rTh7mson,  10th  October,  1794.)  '' ItaPPea^ 
evident  to  me  that  Oswald  composed  his  Eoshn 
Castle  on  the  modulation  of  this  air  .  .  •  ibe 
old  verses  to  which  it  was  sung,  when  1  tooK 


THE   BANKS   O'   DOON 


243 


down  the  notes  from  a  country  girl's  voice,  had 
no  great  merit.  The  following  is  a  sj)ecimen  :  — 

!     •* '  There  was  a  pretty  May,  and  a  niilkin  she  went, 

Wi'  her  red  rosy  cheeks,  and  her  coal-black  hair; 

i  And  she  had  met  a  young  man  comin  o'er  the  bent, 

With  a  double  and  adiew  to  the  fair  May,'  etc. 

and  SO  on  for  four  other  stanzas."     (R.  B.) 


O,  LUVE  will  venture  in  where  it  daur  ua 
;  weel  be  seen  ! 

I    0,  luve    will   venture   in,    where    wisdom 
ance  hath  been  ! 
But  I  will  doun  yon  river  rove  amang  the 
wood  sae  green, 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear 
May  ! 

II 

The   primrose  I  will   pu',  the   firstling  o' 

the  year, 
And  I  will  pu'  the  pink,  the  emblem  o'  my 

dear. 
For   she 's   the    pink   o'   womankind,    and 

blooms  without  a  peer  — 
And  a'   to  be   a  posie  to  my  ain  dear 

May  ! 

Ill 

I  '11   pu'   the   budding  rose  when  Phoebus 
peeps  in  view. 

For  it 's  like  a  baumy  kiss  o'  her  sweet, 
bonie  mou. 

The  hayacinth  's  for  constancy  wi'  its  un- 
changing blue  — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear 
May  ! 

IV 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair. 
And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I  '11  place  the  lily 

there. 
The  daisy's  for  simplicity  and  unaffected 

air  — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear 

May  ! 

V 

The   hawthorn  I  will  pu',  wi'  its  locks  o' 

siller  gray, 
Where,  like   an    ag^d   man,    it   stands   at 

break  o'  day; 
But  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush  I 

winna  tak  away  — 
And   a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear 

May  ! 


The  woodbine  I  will  pu'  when  the  e'ening 

star  is  near. 
And   the    diamond  draps  o'  dew  shall  be 

her  een  sae  clear  ! 
The  violet 's  for  modesty,  which  weel  she 

fa's  to  wear  — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear 

May! 

VII 

I  '11  tie  the  posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band 

o'  luve. 
And  I  '11  place  it  in  her  breast,   and  I  '11 

swear  by  a'  above, 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life  the  band 

shall  ne'er  remove. 
And   this   will  be   a  posie  to  my  ain 

dear  May  ! 


THE    BANKS    O'   DOON 

"  An  Ayrshire  legend,"  according  to  Allan 
Cunningham,  "  says  the  heroine  of  this  affect- 
ing song  was  Pegg  Kennedy  of  Daljarroch;" 
and  Chambers  also  supposed  the  ballad  to  be  an 
allegory  of  the  same  "  unhappy  love-tale."  See 
ante,  p.  201,  Prefatory  Note  to  Young  Peggy, 
but  even  if  the  "  love-tale  "  were  then  known, 
it  was  not  then  "  unhappy." 

For  other  sets,  Sweet  are  the  Banks  and  Ye 
Flowery  Banks,  see  post,  pp.  309,  310. 


Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I  sae  weary  fu'  o'  care  ! 
Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird. 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn  ! 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 

Departed  never  to  return. 

II 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ! 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose  — 

But  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


244 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


WILLIE   WASTLE 

The  heroine  is  said  to  have  been  the  wife  of 
a  farmer  who  lived  near  Ellisland.  A  cottage 
in  Peeblesshire,  which  stood  where  a  muirland 
bum,  the  Logan  Water,  joins  the  Tweed,  was 
known  by  the  name  of  Linkmndoddie,  but 
probably  it  was  so  named  after  Burns  wrote 
his  song.  The  earliest  authenticated  appear- 
ance of  Willie  Wastle  in  rhyme  is  in  Cock- 
burn's  (Governor  of  Dunse  Castle)  reply  to 
Colonel  Fenwick :  — 

"  I,  Willie  Wastle, 
Am  in  my  castle  ; 
All  the  dogges  in  the  towne 
Shall  not  dinge  me  downe." 

This  same  rhyme  was,  and  is,  used  in  the 
mimic  warfare  of  Scottish  children ;  but 
whether  they  were  the  inspirers  of  Cockbum, 
or  he  of  them,  it  is  impossible  to  aflfirm. 


Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

The  spot  they  ca'd  it  Linkmndoddie. 
Willie  was  a  wabster  guid 

Could  stown  a  clue  wi'  onie  bodie. 
He  had  a  wife  was  dour  and  din, 

O,  Tinkler  Maidgie  was  her  mither  ! 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 


She  has  an  e'e  (she  has  but  ane), 

The  cat  has  twa  the  very  colour, 
Five  rusty  teeth,  forbye  a  stump, 

A  clapper-tongue  wad  deave  a  miller  ; 
A  whiskin  beard  about  her  mou, 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither: 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 

ni 

She's  bow-hough'd,  she's  hem-shin'd, 

Ae  limpin  leg  a  hand-breed  shorter; 
She  's  twisted  right,  she  's  twisted  left, 

To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter; 
She  has  a  hump  upon  her  breast, 

The  twin  o'  that  upon  her  shouther: 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 


Auld  baudrans  by  the  ingle  sits, 
An'  wi'  her  loof  her  face  a-washin; 


But  Willie's  wife  is  nae  sae  trig, 

She  dights  her  grunzie  wi'  a  hushion; 

Her  walie  nieves  like  midden-creels. 
Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan  Water: 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 


LADY   MARY   ANN 

Bums  got  the  germ  of  his  song  from  a  frag- 
ment in  the  Herd  iis.  "'  Lady  Mary  Ann  "  and 
"  Young  Charlie  Cochrane  "  are  his  own,  as 
are  the  last  three  stanzas  of  the  ballad. 


O,  Lady  Mary  Ann  looks  o'er  the  Castle 

wa'. 
She  saw  three  bonie  boys  playing  at  the  ba', 
The   youngest   he  was   the  flower   amang 

them  a'  — 
My    bonie   laddie 's    young,     but    he 's 

growin  yet  ! 


"  O  father,  O  father,  an  ye  think  it  fit. 
We  '11  send  him  a  year  to  the  college  yet; 
We  '11  sew  a  green  ribbon  round  about  bis 

hat. 
And   that   wiU   let   them    ken  he 's   to 

marry  yet !  " 

III 
Lady  Mary  Ann  was  a  flower  in  the  dew, 
Sweet  was  its  smell  and  bonie  was  its  hue, 
And  the  longer  it  blossom'd  the  sweeter  it 
grew. 
For  the  lily  in  the  bud  will  be  bonier  yet. 


Young  Charlie  Cochran  was  the  sprout  of 

an  aik; 
Bonie   and  bloomin  and  straucht  was  its 

make; 
The  sun  took  delight  to  shine  for  its  sake, 
And  it  will  be  the  brag  o'  the  forest  yet. 


The  simmer  is  gaue  when  the  leaves  they 

were  green. 
And  the  days  are  awa  that  we  hae  seen; 
But  far  better  days  I  trust  will  come  again. 
For  my  bonie  laddie 's  young,  but  he 's 
growin  yet. 


KELLYBURN   BRAES 


245 


SUCH    A   PARCEL   OF    ROGUES 
IN  A   NATION 


Fareweel  to  a'  our  Scottish  fame, 

Fareweel  our  ancient  glory  ! 
Fareweel  ev'n  to  the  Scottish  name 

Sae  famed  in  martial  story  ! 
Now  Sark  rins  over  Solway  sands, 

An'  Tweed  rins  to  the  ocean. 
To     mark     where      England's      province 
stands  — 

Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation  ! 


What  force  or  guile  could  not  subdue 

Thro'  many  warlike  ages 
Is  wrought  now  by  a  coward  few 

For  hireling  traitor's  wages. 
The  English  steel  we  could  disdain. 

Secure  in  valour's  station; 
But  English  gold  has  been  our  bane  — 

Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation  ! 

Ill 

0,  would,  or  I  had  seen  the  day 

That  Treason  thus  could  sell  us. 
My  auld  grey  head  had  lien  in  clay 

Wi'  Bruce  and  loyal  Wallace  ! 
But  pith  and  power,  till  my  last  hour 

I  '11  mak  this  declaration :  — 
"  We  're    bought   and    sold    for    English 
gold"  — 
t       Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation ! 


KELLYBURN    BRAES 

The  Kelly  bum  {i.  e.  brook)  forms  the  north- 
em  boundary  of  Ayrshire,  and  the  ballad  has 
'  no  connexion  with  Nithsdale  or  Galloway. 


There  lived  a  carl  in  Kellyburn  Braes 
t|     (Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
I  thyme !), 

And  he  had  a  wife  was  the  plague  o'  his 
days 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 
is  in  prime  !). 


Ae  day  as  the  carl  gaed  up  the  lang  glen 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !), 
He  met  wi'  the  Devil,  says:  —  "How  do 
you  fen?" 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 

Ill 

"  I  've  got  a  bad  wife,  sir,  that 's  a'  my  com- 
plaint 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  .'), 
For,  saving  your  presence,  to  her  ye  're  a 
saint." 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


"  It's  neither  your  stot  nor  your  staig   I 
shall  crave 
(Hey   and   the   rue    grows    bonnie   wi' 
thyme  !), 
But  gie  me  your  wife,  man,  for  her  I  must 
have  " 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


"  O  welcome  most  kindly  !  "  the  blythe  carl 
said 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !), 
"  But  if  ye  can  match  her  ye  're  waur  than 
ye  're  ca'd  " 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


The  Devil  has   got  the   auld  wife   on  his 
back 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme!), 
And  like  a  poor  pedlar   he 's   carried   his 
pack 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


He  's  carried  her  hame  to  his  ain  hallan- 
door 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  I), 


246 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


Syne  bade  her  gae  in  for  a  bitch   and   a 
whore 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


Then  straight  he  makes  fifty,  the  pick  o' 
his  band 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !), 
Turn  out   on  her  guard,  in  the  clap  o'  a 
hand 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 

IX 
The  carlin  gaed  thro'  them  like  onie  wud 
bear 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !): 
Whae'er  she  gat  hands  on  cam  near  her 
nae  mair 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


A  reekit  wee  deevil  looks  over  the  wa 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !) :  — 
"  O  help,  maister,  help,  or  she  '11  ruin  us 
a'!" 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 
is  in  prime  !). 


The   Devil  he  swore  by  the  edge  o'  his 
knife 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !), 
He  pitied  the  man  that  was  tied  to  a  wife 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 

XII 
The  Devil  he  swore  by  the  kirk  and  the  bell 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !), 
He  was  not  in  wedlock,  thank  Heav'n,  but 
in  Hell 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


Then  Satan  has  travell'd  again  wi'  his  pack 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !), 


And  to  her  auld  husband  he  's  carried  her 
back 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


"  I  hae  been  a  Devil  the  feck  o'  my  life 
(Hey    and    the    rue    grows    bonie    wi' 
thyme  !), 
But   ne'er   was   in  Hell  till   I  met  wi'  a 
wife  " 
(And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is 
in  prime  !). 


THE    SLAVE'S    LAMENT 


It  was  in  sweet  Senegal 
That  my  foes  did  me  enthral 

For  the  lands  of  Virginia,  -giuia,  O  ! 
Torn  from  that  lovely  shore. 
And  must  never  see  it  more. 

And  alas  !  I  am  weary,  weary,  O  ! 


All  on  that  charming  coast 
Is  no  bitter  snow  and  frost, 

Like  the  lands  of  Virginia,  -ginia,  O  ! 
There  streams  for  ever  flow. 
And  the  flowers  for  ever  blow. 

And  alas  !  I  am  weary,  weary,  0  ! 

Ill 

The  burden  I  must  bear. 
While  the  cruel  scourge  I  fear, 

In  the  lands  of  Virginia,  -ginia,  O  ! 
And  I  think  on  friends  most  dear 
With  the  bitter,  bitter  tear. 

And  alas  !  I  am  weary,  weary,  O  ! 


b 


THE    SONG   OF    DEATH 


u 


Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth, 
and  ye  skies, 
Now  gay  with  the  broad  setting  sun  ! 
Farewell,  loves   and   friendships,  ye   deal 
tender  ties  — 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 


[. 


BONIE    BELL 


247 


Thou   grim  King  of  Terrors  !  thou  Life's 

gloomy  foe, 

Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave  ! 

Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant,  but 

know, 

No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 


ThoQ  strik'st  the  dull  peasant  —  he  sinks 
in  the  dark, 
Nor  saves  e'en  the  wreck  of  a  name  ! 
Thou  strik'st  the  young  hero  —  a  glorious 
mark. 
He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame  ! 
In  the  field  of  proud  honour,  our  swords  in 
our  hands, 
Our  king  and  our  country  to  save. 
While  victory  shines  on  Life's  last  ebbing 
sands, 
O,  who  would  not  die  with  the  brave  ? 


SWEET   AFTON 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton  was  sent  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop,  5th  February,  1789,  and  in  the  enclos- 
ing- letter  Burns  explicitly  declares  that  it  was 
written  for  Johnson's  Musical  Museum,  as  a 
"  compliment  "  to  the  "  small  river  Afton  that 
flows  into  Nith,  near  New  Cumnock,  which 
has  some  charming  wild  romantic  scenery  on 
its  banks."  etc.  It  seems  certain,  therefore, 
that  the  name  Mary  was  introduced  euphonue 
gratia,  or  at  least  that  the  heroine  — if  heroine 
there  were  —  was  another  than  Mary  Camp- 
bell. Also,  the  song  was  clearly  suggested  by 
one  of  David  Garrick's,  to  the  Avon,  which 
Burns  saw  in  A  Select  Collection  of  English 
Songs  (London,  1763). 


Flow   gently,   sweet    Afton,    among    thy 

green  braes  l 
Flow  geniij,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy 


praise 


My   Mary 's    asleep    by    thy    murmuring 

stream  — 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 

dream  ! 


Thou  stock  dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro' 

the  glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny 

den, 


Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming 

forbear  — 
I  charge  you,  disturb  not  my  slumbering 

fair  ! 

Ill 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring 
hills. 

Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear,  wind- 
ing rills  ! 

There  daily  I  wander,  as  noon  rises  high, 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my 
eye. 


How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  vallies 

below. 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses 

blow 
There  oft,  as  mild  Ev'ning  weeps  over  the 

lea, 
The  sweet-scented   birk   shades  my  Mary 

and  me. 


Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it 

glides, 
And  winds   by   the  cot   where  my  Mary 

resides  ! 
How  wanton   thy  waters  her   snowy   feet 

lave. 
As,  gathering  sweet  flowerets,  she  stems  thy 

clear  wave  ! 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes  ! 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my 

lays  ! 
My   Mary   's    asleep    by   thy   murmuring 

stream  — 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 

dream  ! 


BONIE    BELL 


The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 
And  surly  Winter  grimly  flies. 

Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters, 
And  bouie  blue  are  the  sunny  skies. 


248 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL  MUSEUM 


Fresh  o'er  the  mountains  breaks  forth  the 
morning, 

The  ev'ning  gilds  the  ocean's  swell: 
All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun's  returning, 

And  I  rejoice  in  my  bonie  Bell. 


The  flowery  Spring  leads  sunny  summer, 

The  yellow  Autumn  presses  near; 
Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  Winter, 

Till  smiling  Spring  again  appear. 
Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing, 

Old  Time  and  Nature  their  changes  tell; 
But  never  ranging,  still  unchanging, 

I  adore  my  bonie  Bell. 


THE   GALLANT   WEAVER 

Supposed  by  some  to  refer  to  Armour's  visit 
to  Paisley  in  the  spring  of  1786,  [after  the 
quarrel,  and  to  an  unauthenticated  story  of  a 
flirtation  with  a  weaver  named  Wilson.  The 
song  Tg  the  Weaver's  Gin  Ye  Go  (ante,  p.  202) 
is  also  referred  to  the  same  episode,  but  with 
little  ground.]  The  Cart  flows  past  Paisley. 
A  song.  The  Lass  of  Cartside,  which  we  have 
found  in  an  old  Dumfries  chap,  may  or  may 
not  have  suggested  this  one  to  Bums  :  — 

"  Where  Cart  gently  glides  thro'  the  vale. 
And  nature,  in  beauty  arrayed, 
Perfumes  the  sweet  whispering  gale. 
That  wantons  in  every  green  shade,"  etc. 

[As  published  in  Thomson  (vol.  i.),  the  song 
is  of  a  gallant  sailor.} 


Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea 
By  monie  a  flower  and  spreading  tree, 
There  lives  a  lad,  the  lad  for  me  — 

He  is  a  gallant  weaver! 
O,  I  had  wooers  aught  or  nine. 
They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine, 
And  I  was  fear'd  my  heart  wad  tine. 

And  I  gied  it  to  the  weaver. 


My  daddie  sign'd  my  tocher-band 
To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  land; 
But  to  my  heart  I  '11  add  my  hand, 

And  give  it  to  the  weaver. 
While  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers. 
While  bees  delight  in  opening  flowers, 
While  corn  grows  green  in  summer  showers, 

I  love  my  gallant  weaver. 


HEY,   CA'   THRO' 


CHORUS 


Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro'. 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado  ! 
Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro', 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado  ! 


Up  wi'  the  carls  of  Dysart 
And  the  lads  o'  Buckhaven, 

And  the  kimmers  o'  Largo 
And  the  lasses  o'  Leven  ! 


We  hae  tales  to  tell. 

And  we  hae  sangs  to  sing; 
We  hae  pennies  to  spend. 

And  we  hae  pints  to  bring. 


We  '11  live  a'  our  days, 

And  them  that  comes  behin', 

Let  them  do  the  like, 

And  spend  the  gear  they  win  f 

CHORUS 

Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro'. 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado  ! 
Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro', 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado  ! 


O,   CAN   YE   LABOUR   LEA 

The  first  stanza  and  the  chorus  are  well-nigli  | 
word  for  word  from  the  Merry  Muses  set,  {i 
which,  however,  may  have  been  retouched  by  [ 
Burns.  The  rest  appears  to  be  his  own  ;  though  « 
in  one  of  his  letters  he  describes  his  stanza  iii  | 
as  a  favourite  song  "  o'  his  mither's." 

CHORUS 

O,  can  ye  labour  lea,  young  man, 

O, can  ye  labour  lea  ? 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  came  again  - 

Ye  'se  never  scorn  me  ! 


I  fee'd  a  man  at  Martinmas 
Wi'  airle-pennies  three; 

But  a'  the  faut  I  had  to  him 
He  cauldna  labour  lea. 


THE   DEIL  'S    AWA    WI'   TH'    EXCISEMAN 


249 


0,  clappin  's  guid  in  Febarwar, 
An'  kissin  's  sweet  in  May ; 

But  what  signifies  a  young  man's  love, 
An 't  dinna  last  for  ay  ? 


O,  kissin  is  the  key  o'  love 

An'  clappin  is  the  lock; 
An'  makin  of  "s  the  best  thing 

That  e'er  a  young  thing  got ! 

CHORUS 

O,  can  ye  labour  lea,  young  man, 

O, can  ye  labour  lea  ? 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  came  again  ■ 

Ye  'se  never  scorn  me  ! 


THE    DEUK'S    DANG   O'ER   MY 
DADDIE 


The  bairns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout :  — 

"  The  deuk  's  dang  o'er  my  daddie,  O  !  " 
"The  fien-ma-care,"  quo'  the  feirrie  auld 
wife, 

"  He  was  but  a  paidlin  body,  O  ! 
He  paidles  out,  and  he  paidles  in. 

An'  he  paidles  late  and  early,  O  ! 
This  seven  lang  years  I  hae  lien  by  his  side. 

An'  he  is  but  a  f  usionless  earlie,  O  !  " 


"  O,  baud  your  tongue,  my  feirrie  auld  wife, 

O,  baud  your  tongue,  now  Nansie,  0  ! 
I  've  seen  the  day,  and  sae  hae  ye. 

Ye  wad  na  been  sae  donsie,  O. 
I  've  seen  the  day  ye  butter'd  my  brose, 

And  cuddl'd  me  late  and  early,  O; 
But  downa-do  's  come  o'er  me  now, 

And  och,  I  find  it  sairly,  O  ! " 


SHE'S    FAIR   AND    FAUSE 

The  general  allusion  is  to  the  girl  who  jilted 
Alexander  Cunningham  (see  ante.  p.  95,  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  5o7!y  ;  Anna,  Thy  Charms;  and 
p.  140,  Prefatory  Note  to  To  Alexander  Cun- 
ningham). 


She  's  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart; 

I  lo'ed  her  meikle  and  lang; 
She  's  broken  her  vow,  she  's  broken  my 
heart; 

And  I  may  e'en  gae  hang. 
A  coof  cam  in  wi'  routh  o'  gear, 
And  I  hae  tint  my  dearest  dear; 
But  Woman  is  but  warld's  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonie  lass  gang  ! 


Whae'er  ye  be  that  Woman  love. 

To  this  be  never  blind: 
Nae  f erlie  't  is,  tho'  fickle  she  prove, 

A  woman  has 't  by  kind. 
O  Woman  lovely,  Woman  fair, 
An  angel  form  's  faun  to  thy  share, 
'T  wad    been    o'er    meikle    to    gien    thee 
mair  !  .  .  . 

I  mean  an  ansrel  mind. 


THE    DEIL'S    AWA    WP    TH'    EX- 
CISEMAN 

CHORUS 

The  Deil  's  awa,  the  Deil  's  awa, 
The  Deil 's  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman  ! 

He  's  dauc'd  awa,  he  's  danc'd  awa. 
He 's  danc'd  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman  ! 


The  Deil  cam  fiddlin  thro'  the  town, 
And  danc'd  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman, 

And  ilka  wife  cries :  —  "  Auld  Mahoun, 
I  wish  you  luck  o'  the  prize,  man  ! 


"  We  '11  mak  our  maut,  and  we  '11  brew  our 
drink. 
We  '11  laugh,  sing,  and  rejoice,  man. 
And   mouie    braw   thanks    to    the   meikle 
black  Deil, 
That  danc'd  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman." 


There  's  threesome  reels,  there 's  foursome 
reels. 

There  's  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man. 
But  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam  to  the  laud 

Was  The  Deil 's  Aica  wi'  th'  Exciseman. 


250 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


CHORUS 

The  Deil  's  awa,  the  Deil  's  awa, 
The  Deil 's  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman  ! 

He  's  danc'd  awa,  he 's  danc'd  awa, 
He  's  danc'd  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman  ! 


THE   LOVELY    LASS    OF    INVER- 
NESS 


The  lovely  lass  of  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 

For  e'en  to  inorn  she  cries  "  Alas  !  " 
And  ay  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  e'e:  — 

II 
*'  Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day  — 

A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me  ! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear. 

My  father  dear  and  brethren  three. 

Ill 
«  Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 

Their  graves  are  growin  green  to  see, 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 

That  ever  blest  a  woman's  e'e. 


"  Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be. 
For  monie  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 

That  ne'er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee  !  " 


A   RED,  RED    ROSE 


O,  MY  luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That 's  newly  sprung  in  June. 

0,  my  luve  is  like  the  melodic, 
That 's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 


As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I, 
And  1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 


Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun  ! 


And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 


And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve. 
And  fare  thee  weel  a  while  ! 

And  I  wUl  come  again,  my  luve, 
Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile  ! 


AS  I  STOOD  BY  YON 
TOWER 


ROOFLESS 


The  "  roofless  tower"  was  part  of  the  ruins 
of  Lincluden  Abbey,  situate  at  the  junction  of 
the  Cluden  with  the  Nith.  See  ante.  p.  198,  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  Epitaph  On  Grizzel  Grimme. 

CHORUS 

A  lassie  all  alone  was  making  her  moan, 
Lamenting  our  lads  beyond  the  sea:  — 
"  In   the   bluidy   wars   they  fa',  and   our 
honor 's  gane  an'  a'. 
And  broken-hearted  we  maun  die." 


As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where    the   wa'flow'r   scents  the   dewy 
air, 

Where  the  houlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care: 


The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still. 
The  stars  they  shot  along  the  sky. 

The  tod  was  howling  on  the  hill. 

And  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply. 


The  bum,  adown  its  hazelly  path. 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruin'd  wa', 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 
Whase  roarings  seem'd  to  rise  and  fa'. 

IV 

The  cauld  blae  North  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing,  eerie  din  : 

Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift. 
Like  Fortune's  favours,  tint  as  win. 


Now,  looking  over  firth  and  fauld, 

Her  horn  the  pale-faced  Cynthia  rear'd, 


AULD   LANG   SYNE 


251 


When  lo  !  iu  form  of  minstrel  auld 
A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  appear'd. 


VI 


And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow, 
Might   rous'd  the    slumbering   Dead  to 
hear, 

But  O,  it  was  a  tale  of  woe 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear  ! 


He  sang  wi'  joy  his  former  day, 

He,  weeping,  wail'd  his  latter  times: 

But  what  he  said  —  it  was  nae  play  !  — 
I  winna  ventur't  in  my  rhymes. 

CHORUS 

A  lassie  all  alone  was  making  her  moan 
Lamenting  our  lads  beyond  the  sea:  — 
"  In   the   bluidy  wars   they   fa',  and  our 
honor  's  gane  an'  a', 
And  broken-hearted  we  maun  die." 


O,   AN    YE    WERE    DEAD,   GUID- 

MAN 

CHORUS 

Sing,  round  about  the  fire  wi'  a  rung  she 

ran, 
An'  round  about  the  fire  wi'  a  rung  she 

ran :  — 
"  Your  horns  shall  tie  you  to  the  staw. 
An'  I  shall  bang  your  hide,  guidman !  " 


O,  AX  ye  were  dead,  guidman, 
A  green  turf  on  your  head,  guidman  1 
I  wad  bestow  my  widowhood 
Upon  a  rantiu  Highlandman  ! 


There  's  sax  eggs  in  the  pan,  guidman. 
There  's  sax  eggs  in  the  pan,  guidman. 
There  's  aue  to  you,  and  twa  to  me. 
And  three  to  our  John  Highlandman  ! 

Ill 

A  sheep-head 's  in  the  pot,  guidman, 

A  sheep-head  's  in  the  pot,  guidman  ! 

The  flesh  to  him,  the  broo  to  me, 

An'  the  horns  become  your  brow,  guidman  ! 


CHORUS 

Sing,  round  about  the  fire  wi'  a  rung  she 

ran. 
An'  round  about  the  fire  wi'  a  rung  she 

ran:  — 
"  Your  horns  shall  tie  you  to  the  staw, 
An'  I  shall  bang  your  hide,  guidman  !  " 


AULD    LANG   SYNE 

Sent  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  17th  December,  17S8  : 
"  Apropos,  is  not  the  iScotch  phrase  Auld  Lang- 
syne  exceedingly  expressive  ?  There  is  an  old 
song  and  tune  which  has  often  thrilled  through 
my  soul,"  etc.  To  Thomson  he  wrote  :  "  One 
song  more  and  I  have  done  — '  Auld  Lang 
Syne.'  The  air  is  but  mediocre ;  but  the  fol- 
lowing song  —  the  old  song  of  the  olden  times, 
and  which  has  never  been  in  print,  nor  even  in 
manuscript,  until  I  took  it  down  from  an  old 
man's  singing,  is  enough  to  recommend  any 
air."  Thomson  in  Scottish  Airs  expressed  the 
opinion  that  Bums  thus  wrote  "  merely  in  a 
playful  humour."  It  may  also  be  that  the 
story  was  a  device  to  make  sure  that  he 
(Thomson)  would  accept  a  piece  which  the 
writer  was  far  too  modest  to  describe  as  his 
own  improvement  on  the  earlier  sets,  the  one 
published  in  Watson  (1711),  the  other  credited 
to  AUan  Ramsay.  But,  after  all,  it  is  by  no 
means  impossible  that  he  really  got  the  germ 
of  his  set  as  he  says  he  did. 

CHORUS 

For  auld  laug  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  laug  syne  ! 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  mind  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  auld  laug  syne  ! 


And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I  '11  be  mine, 
And  we  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 


We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 
And  pou'd  the  gowana  fine, 


252 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


But  we  Ve  wander'd  monie  a  weary  fit 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


We  twa  hae  paidl'd  in  the  burn 
Frae  morning  sun  till  dine, 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


And  there  's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie  's  a  hand  o'  thine, 
And  we  '11  talc  a  right  guid-willie  waught 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

CHORUS 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 


LOUIS,  WHAT  RECK   I   BY  THEE 

Probably  made  soon  after  his  marriage,  and 
certainly  before  the  Revolution  of  179.5. 


Louis,  what  reck  1  by  thee, 
Or  Geordie  on  his  ocean  ? 

Dyvor  beggar  louns  to  me  ! 
I  reign  in  Jeanie's  bosom. 


Let  her  crown  my  love  her  law, 
And  in  her  breast  enthrone  me. 

Kings  and  nations  —  swith  awa  ! 
Reif  randies,  I  disown  ye. 


HAD    I   THE   WYTE? 

I 

Had  I  the  wyte  ?  had  I  the  wyte  ? 

Had  I  the  wyte  ?  she  bade  me  ! 
She  watch'd  me  by  the  hie-gate  side, 

And  up  the  loan  she  shaw'd  me; 
And  when  I  wadna  venture  in, 

A  coward  loon  she  ca'd  me  ! 
Had  Kirk  and  State  been  in  the  gate, 

I  'd  lighted  when  she  bade  me. 


Sae  craftilie  she  took  me  ben 

And  bade  me  mak  nae  clatter:  — 
"  For  our  ramgunshoch,  glum  guidman 

Is  o'er  ayont  the  water." 
Whae'er  shall  say  I  wanted  grace 

When  I  did  kiss  and  dawte  her, 
Let  him  be  planted  in  my  place. 

Syne  say  I  was  the  fautor  ! 


Could  I  for  shame,  could  I  for  shame, 

Could  I  for  shame  ref us'd  her  ? 
And  wadna  manhood  been  to  blame 

Had  I  unkindly  used  her  ? 
He  claw'd  her  wi'  the  ripplin-kame, 

And  blae  and  bluidy  bruis'd  her  — 
When  sic  a  husband  was  frae  hame. 

What  wife  but  wad  excus'd  her  ! 


I  dighted  ay  her  een  sae  blue. 

An'  bann'd  the  cruel  randy, 
And,  weel  I  wat,  her  willin  mou' 

Was  sweet  as  sugarcandie. 
At  gloamin-shot,  it  was,  I  wot, 

I  lighted  —  on  the  Monday, 
But  I  cam  thro'  the  Tyseday's  dew 

To  wanton  Willie's  brandy. 


COMIN   THRO'   THE   RYE 


O,  Jenny  's  a'  weet,  poor  body, 

Jenny  's  seldom  dry: 
She  draigl't  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Comin  thro'  the  rye  ! 


Comix  thro'  the  rye,  poor  body, 

Comin  thro'  the  rye, 
She  draigl't  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Comin  thro'  the  rye  ! 


Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Comin  thro'  the  rye. 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body. 
Need  a  body  cry  ? 


CHARLIE    HE  'S   MY   DARLING 


253 


Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Comin  thro'  the  glen, 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 
Need  the  warld  ken  ? 


CHORUS 


O,  Jenny  's  a'  weet,  poor  body, 

Jenny  's  seldom  dry: 
She  draigl't  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Comin  thro'  the  rye  ! 


YOUNG   JAMIE 


Young  Jamie,  pride  of  a'  the  plain, 
Sae  gallant  and  sae  gay  a  swain, 
Thro'  a'  our  lasses  he  did  rove, 
And  reigu'd  resistless  King  of  Love. 


But  now,  wi'  sighs  and  starting  tears. 
He  strays  amang  the  woods  and  breers; 
Or  in  the  glens  and  rocky  caves 
His  sad  complaining  dowie  raves:  — 


"  I,  wha  sae  late  did  range  and  rove. 
And  chang'd  with  every  moon  my  love 
I  little  thought  the  time  was  near. 
Repentance  I  should  buy  sae  dear. 


"  The  slighted  maids  my  torments  see. 
And  laugh  at  a'  the  pangs  I  dree ; 
While  she,  my  cruel,  scornful  Fair, 
Forbids  me  e'er  to  see  her  mair." 


OUT   OVER   THE    FORTH 


Out  over  the  Forth,  I  look  to  the  north  — 

But  what  is  the  north,  and  its  Highlands 

to  me  ? 

The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my  breast, 

The  far  foreign  land  or  the  wide  rolling 

sea  ! 


But  I  look  to  the  west,  when  I  gae  to  rest, 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers 
may  be; 

For  far  in  the  west  lives  he  I  loe  best. 
The  man  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me. 


WANTONNESS  FOR  EVERMAIR 

Wantonness  for  evermair. 
Wantonness  has  been  my  ruin. 

Yet  for  a'  my  dool  and  care 

It 's  wantonness  for  evermair. 

I  hae  lo'ed  the  Black,  the  Brown; 

I  hae  lo'ed  the  Fair,  the  Gowden! 
A'  the  colours  in  the  town  — 

I  hae  won  their  wanton  favour. 


CHARLIE    HE  'S     MY    DARLING 

CHORUS 

An'  Charlie  he  's  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling, 

Charlie  he  's  my  darling  — 
The  Young  Chevalier  ! 


'T  WAS  on  a  Monday  morning 
Right  early  in  the  year. 

That  Charlie  came  to  our  town- 
The  Younff  Chevalier  ! 


As  he  was  walking  up  the  street 

The  city  for  to  view, 
O,  there  he  spied  a  bonie  lass 

The  window  looking  thro'  ! 

Ill 

Sae  light 's  he  jimpfed  up  the  stair, 

And  tirl'd  at  the  pin ; 
And  wha  sae  ready  as  hersel' 

To  let  the  laddie  in  ! 


He  set  his  Jenny  on  his  knee, 
All  in  his  Highland  dress; 

For  brawlie  weel  he  kend  the  way 
To  please  a  bonie  lass. 


254 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


It 's  up  yon  heathery  mountain 
And  down  yon  scroggy  glen, 

We  daurua  gang  a-milking 
For  Charlie  and  his  men  ! 


CHORUS 


An'  Charlie  he  's  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling, 

Charlie  he  's  my  darling  — 
The  Young  Chevalier  ! 


THE    LASS    O'   ECCLEFECHAN 

Burns,  in  the'course  of  his  "  duty  as  super- 
visor,'' was  accustomed  to  "visit  this  unfortu- 
nate wicked  little  village,"  and  slept  in  it  on 
7th  February,  1795  (R.  B.  to  Thomson),  about 
two  months  after  the  birth  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 
It  was  long  a  favourite  resort  of  such  vaga- 
bonds as  are  pictured  in  The  Jolly  Beggars : 
which  may  —  or  may  not  —  accoimt  in  some 
measure  for  Carlyle's  affection  for  that  admir- 
able piece.  Thus,  in  The  Trogger,  a  ballad  in 
The  Merry  Muses,  which  may  very  well  be  from 
Burns,  the  hero  and  heroine,  their  business 
done,  proceed  to 

"  Tak  the  gate, 
An'  in  by  Ecclefechan, 
Where  the  brandy  Btoup  we  gart  it  clink, 
An'  the  strong  beer  ream  the  quaich  in." 


"  Gat  ye  me,  O,  gat  ye  me, 

Gat  ye  me  wi'  naething  ? 
Rock  an'  reel,  an'  spinning  wheel, 

A  mickle  quarter  basin: 
Bye  attour,  my  gutcher  has 

A  heich  house  and  a  laich  ane, 
A'  forbye  my  bonie  sel, 

The  toss  o'  Ecclefechan  !  " 


"  O,  haud  your  tongue  now,  Lucky  Lang, 

O,  haud  your  tongue  and  jauner  ! 
I  held  the  gate  till  you  I  met, 

Syne  I  began  to  wander: 
I  tint  my  whistle  and  my  sang, 

I  tint  my  peace  and  pleasure; 
But  your  green  graff,  now  Lucky  Lang, 

Wad  airt  me  to  my  treasure." 


THE   COOPER    O'   CUDDY 

CHORUS 

We  '11  hide  the  cooper  behint  the  door, 
Behint  the  door,  behint  the  door, 
We  '11  hide  the  cooper  behint  the  door. 
And  cover  him  under  a  mawn,  O. 


The  Cooper  o'  Cuddy  came  here  awa, 
He  ca'd  the  girrs  out  o'er  us  a', 
An'  our  guidwife  has  gotten  a  ca'. 
That 's  anger'd  the  silly  guidman,  O. 


He  sought  them  out,  he  sought  them  in, 
Wi'  "  Deil  hae  her  !  "  an'  "  Deil  hae  him  !  " 
But  the  body  he  was  sae  doited  and  blin', 
He  wist  na  where  he  was  gaun,  O. 

ni 

They    cooper'd    at   e'en,  they  cooper'd    at 

morn. 
Till  our  guidman  has  gotten  the  scorn: 
On  ilka  brow  she  's  planted  a  horn, 

And  swears  that  there  they  sail  stan',  O  ! 


We  '11  hide  the  cooper  behint  the  door, 
Behint  the  door,  behint  the  door. 
We  '11  hide  the  cooper  behint  the  door. 
And  cover  him  under  a  mawn,  O. 


FOR    THE    SAKE    O'   SOMEBODY 


My  heart  is  sair  —  I  dare  na  tell  — 

My  heart  is  sair  for  Somebody: 

I  could  wake  a  winter  night 

For  the  sake  o'  Somebody. 

O-hon  !  for  Somebody  ! 

0-liey  !  for  Somebody  ! 

I  could  range  the  world  around 

For  the  sake  o'  Somebody. 


Ye  Powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love, 
O,  sweetly  smile  on  Somebody  ! 

Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free, 
And  send  me  safe  my  Somebody  I 


i 


SAE  FLAXEN  WERE  HER  RINGLETS 


255 


0-hou  !  for  Somebody  ! 
0-hey  !  for  Somebody  ! 
I  wad  do  —  what  wad  I  not  ?  ■ 
For  the  sake  o'  Somebody  ! 


THE    CARDIN    O'T 


Suggested,  perhaps,  by  Alexander  Ross's :  — 

"  There  waa  a  wifie  had  a  wee  pickle  tow, 
And  she  wad  gae  try  the  spinning  o't." 

CHORUS 

The  cardin  o't,  the  spinnin  o't. 
The  warpin  o't,  the  wiunin  o't  ! 
When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a  groat, 
The  tailor  staw  the  lyniu  o't. 


I  COFT  a  stane  o'  haslock  woo, 
To  mak  a  wab  to  Johnie  o't. 

For  Johnie  is  my  only  jo  — 
I  lo'e  him  best  of  onie  yet ! 


For  tho'  his  locks  be  lyart  gray, 
And  tho'  his  brow  be  held  aboon, 

Yet  I  hae  seen  him  on  a  day 
The  pride  of  a'  the  parishen. 

CHORUS 

The  cardin  o't,  the  spinnin  o't, 
The  warpin  o't,  the  winnin  o't  ! 
When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a  groat, 
The  tailor  staw  the  lynin  o't. 


THERE'S    THREE   TRUE   GUID 
FELLOWS 


There  's  three  true  guid  fellows. 
There 's  three  true  guid  fellows. 
There  's  three  true  guid  fellows, 
Down  ayont  yon  glen  ! 


It 's  now  the  day  is  dawin. 
But  or  night  do  fa'  in, 
Whase  cock  's  best  at  crawiii, 
Willie,  thou  sail  ken  ! 


SAE   FLAXEN  WERE  HERRING- 
LETS 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  sir,  a  blackguard 
Ii-ish  song  called  Oonagh's  Waterfall  ?  .  ■  . 
The  air  is  charming,  and  I  have  often  regretted 
the  want  of  decent  vei-ses  to  it.  It  is  too  much, 
at  least  for  my  humble,  rustic  muse,  to  expect 
that  every  effort  of  hers  must  have  merit ;  still 
I  think  that  it  is  better  to  have  mediocre  verses 
to  a  favourite  air,  than  none  at  all.  On  this 
principle  I  have  all  along  proceeded  in  the 
Scots  Musical  Museum;  and,  as  that  publica- 
tion is  at  its  last  volume,  I  intend  the  follow- 
ing song,  to  the  air  above-mentioned,  for  that 
work."      (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  September,  1794.) 

For  Chloris,  see  post,  p.  289. 


Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets. 

Her  eyebrows  of  a  darker  hue, 
Bewitchingly  o'er-arching 

Twa  laughing  een  o'  bonie  blue. 
Her  smiling,  sae  wyling. 

Wad  make  a  wretch  forget  his  woe  4 
What  pleasure,  what  treasure, 

Unto  those  rosy  lips  to  grow  ! 
Such  was  my  Chloris'  bonie  face. 

When  first  that  bonie  face  I  saw, 
And  ay  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm  — 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a' ! 

II 

Like  harmony  her  motion, 

Her  pretty  ankle  is  a  spy 
Betraying  fair  proportion 

Wad  make  a  saint  forget  the  sky  { 
Sae  warming,  sae  charming. 

Her  faultless  form  and  gracefu'  air, 
Ilk  feature  —  auld  Nature 

Declar'd  that  she  could  dae  nae  mair  ! 
Hers  are  the  willing  chains  o'  love 

By  conquering  beauty's  sovereign  law, 
And  ay  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm  — 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 


Let  others  love  the  city. 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon  ! 
Gie  me  the  lonely  valley, 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon. 
Fair  beaming,  and  streaming 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang, 
While  falling,  recalling. 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  his  sang  ! 


256  SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL  MUSEUM" 


There,  dearest  Chloris,  wilt  thou  rove 
By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw, 

And  hear  my  vows  o'  truth  and  love, 
And  say  thou  lo'es  me  best  of  a'  ? 


THE   LASS   THAT   MADE   THE 
BED 

"  The  Bonie  Lass  made  the  Bed  to  Me  was 
composed  on  an  amour  of  Charles  II.  when 
skulking  in  the  North  about  Aberdeen,  in  the 
time  of  the  Usurpation.  He  formed  une  petite 
affaire  with  a  daughter  of  the  House  of  Port 
Letham,  who  was  the  lass  that  made  the  bed 
to  him." 


When  Januar'  wind  was  blawin  cauld. 

As  to  the  North  I  took  my  way, 
The  mirksome  night  did  me  enfauld, 

I  knew  na  where  to  lodge  till  day. 
By  my  guid  luck  a  maid  I  met 

Just  in  the  middle  o'  my  care, 
And  kindly  she  did  me  invite 

To  walk  into  a  chamber  fair. 


I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid, 

And  thank'd  her  for  her  eourtesie; 
I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid, 

An'  bade  her  mak  a  bed  to  me. 
She  made  the  bed  baith  large  and  wide, 

Wi'  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it  down. 
She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips, 

And  drank:  —  "Yoimg  man,  now  sleep 
ye  soun'." 


She  snatch'd  the  candle  in  her  hand, 

And  frae  my  chamber  went  wi'  speed. 
But  I  call'd  her  quickly  back  again 

To  lay  some  mair  below  my  head: 
A  cod  she  laid  below  my  head, 

And  served  me  with  due  respeck. 
And,  to  salute  her  wi'  a  kiss, 

I  put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 


"Hand  aff  your  hands,  young  man,"  she 
said, 
"  And  dinna  sae  uncivil  be ; 
Gif  ye  hae  onie  luve  for  me, 
.    O,  wrang  na  my  virginitie  !  " 


Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gowd, 
Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivorie, 

Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine. 
The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me  ! 


Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 

Twa  drifted  heaps  sae  fair  to  see; 
Her  limbs  the  polish'd  marble  stane. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me  ! 
I  kiss'd  her  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

And  ay  she  wist  na  what  to  say. 
I  laid  her  'tween  me  an'  the  wa'  — 

The  lassie  thocht  na  lang  till  day. 


Upon  the  morrow,  wheu  we  raise, 

I  thank'd  her  for  her  eourtesie. 
But  ay  she  blush'd,  and  ay  she  sigh'd. 

And  said:  —  "  Alas,  ye  've  ruin'd  me  !  " 
I  clasp'd  her  waist,  and  kiss'd  her  syne. 

While  the  tear  stood  twinklin  in  her  e'e 
I  said :  —  "  My  lassie,  dinna  cry. 

For  ye  ay  shall  mak  the  bed  to  me." 


She  took  her  mither's  hoUand  sheets. 

An'  made  them  a'  in  sarks  to  me. 
Blythe  and  merry  may  she  be. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me  ! 
The  bonie  lass  made  the  bed  to  me. 

The  braw  lass  made  the  bed  to  me  ! 
I  '11  ne'er  forget  till  the  day  I  die, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 


SAE   FAR   AWA 


O,  SAD  and  heavy  should  I  part 
But  for  her  sake  sae  far  awa. 

Unknowing  what  my  way  may  thwart  — 
My  native  land  sae  far  awa. 


Thou  that  of  a'  things  Maker  art. 
That  formed  this  Fair  sae  far  awa, 

Gie  body  strength,  then  I  '11  ne'er  start 
At  this  my  way  sae  far  awa ! 


How  true  is  love  to  pure  desert ! 
So  mine  in  her  sae  far  awa, 


O,    WAT   YE   WHA  'S    IN   YON   TOWN 


257 


And  nocht  can  heal  my  bosom's  smart, 
While,  O,  she  is  sae  far  awa  ! 


Xane  other  love,  nane  other  dart 
I  feel,  but  hers  sae  far  awa; 

But  fairer  never  touched  a  heart, 
Than  hers,  the  Fair  sae  far  awa. 


THE   REEL   O'   STUMPIE 


Wap  and  rowe,  wap  and  rowe, 
Wap  and  rowe  the  feetie  o't; 

I  thought  I  was  a  maiden  fair. 
Till  I  heard  the  greetie  o't ! 


My  daddie  was  a  fiddler  fine, 
My  minnie  she  made  mantie,  O, 

And  I  myself  a  thumpin  quine. 

And  danc'd  the  Reel  o'  Stumpie,  O. 


I'LL   AY   CA'    IN    BY   YON    TOWN 

CHORUS 

I  '11  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town 

And  by  yon  garden  green  again  ! 

I  '11  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town 

And  see  my  bonie  Jean  again. 


There  's  nane  shall  ken,  there 's  nane  can 
guess 

What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again. 
But  she,  my  fairest  faithfu'  lass, 

And  stow'nlins  we  sail  meet  again. 


She  '11  wander  by  the  aiken  tree. 

When  trystin  time  draws  near  again; 
And  when  her  lovely  form  I  see, 

0  haith  !  she  's  doubly  dear  again. 

CHORUS 

1  '11  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town 

And  by  yon  garden  green  again  ! 
I  '11  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town 

And  see  my  bonie  Jean  again. 


O,   WAT   YE   WHA  'S    IN    YON 
TOWN 

Begun  at  Ecclefechan,  where  Bums  waa 
storm-stayed,  7th  February,  179.5.  "  Do  you 
know  an  air  —  I  am  sure  you  must  know  it  — 
We  HI  Gang  Nae  Mair  to  Yon  Town.  I  think, 
in  slowish  time,  it  would  make  an  excellent 
song.  I  am  highly  delighted  with  it ;  and  if 
you  should  think  it  worthy  of  your  attention, 
I  have  a  fair  dame  iu  my  eye  to  whom  I  would 
consecrate  it ;  try  with  this  doggrel  until  I  give 
you  a  better." 

In  the  set  sent  to  Johnson,  Jeanie  —  either 
Jean  Armour  or  Jean  Lorimer  —  is  the  heroine. 
In  that  sent  to  Thomson,  the  name  is  Lucy ; 
and  Bums,  enclosing  a  copy  to  Syme  in  an 
undated  letter,  explains  its  history  :  "  Do  you 
know  that  among  much  that  I  admire  in  the 
characters  and  manners  of  those  great  folks 
whom  I  have  now  the  honour  to  call  my  ac- 
quaintances —  the  Oswald  family,  for  instance 
—  there  is  nothing  charms  me  more  than  Mr. 
Oswald's  unconeealable  attachment  to  that 
incomparable  woman."  The  "  incomparable 
woman  "  was  Oswald's  wife.  He  was  Richard 
Oswald  of  Aucheneruive,  nephew  of  the  Mrs. 
Oswald  to  whose  memory  Bums  had  devoted 
a  savage  Ode  (ante,  p.  SI).  Lucy,  daughter  of 
Wynne  Johnston,  Esq.,  of  Hilton,  according  to 
Sharpe,  was  at  this  time  "  well  turned  of 
thirty,  and  ten  years  older  than  her  husband ; 
but  still  a  charming  creature."  She  died  at 
Lisbon  in  January,  1798. 

CHORUS 

O,  wat  ye  wha  's  in  yon  town 
Ye  see  the  e'enin  sun  upon  ? 

The  dearest  maid  's  in  you  town 
That  e'enin  sun  is  shining  on  ! 


Now  haply  down  yon  gay  green  shaw 
She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree. 

How  blest  ye  flowers  that  round  her  blaw  I 
Ye  catch  the  glances  o'  her  e'e. 


How  blest  ye  birds  that  round  her  sing, 
And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year  ! 

And  doubly  welcome  be  the  Spring, 
The  season  to  my  Jeanie  dear  ! 


The  sun  blinks  blythe  in  yon  town, 
Among  the  broomy  braes  sae  green; 


258 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL   MUSEUM 


But  my  delight  in  yon  town, 

And  dearest  pleasure,  is  my  Jean. 


IV 


Without  my  Love,  not  a'  the  charms 
O'  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy; 

But  gie  me  Jeauie  in  my  arms. 

And  welcome  Lapland's  dreary  sky  ! 


My  cave  wad  be  a  lover's  bower, 
Tho'  raging  Winter  rent  the  air, 

And  she  a  lovely  little  flower, 

That  I  wad  tent  and  shelter  there. 


O,  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town 

The  sinkin  sun  's  gane  down  upon  ! 
A  fairer  than  's  in  yon  town 

His  setting  beam  ne'er  shone  upon. 


If  angry  Fate  be  sworn  my  foe. 

And  sufp'ring  I  am  doom'd  to  bear, 

I  'd  careless  quit  aught  else  below, 
But  spare,  O,  spare  me  Jeanie  dear  ! 


For,  while  life  's  dearest  blood  is  warm, 
Ae  thought  frae  her  shall  ne'er  depart, 

And  she,  as  fairest  is  her  form, 
She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart. 

CHORUS 

O,  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town 
Ye  see  the  e'enin  sun  upon  ? 

Tlie  dearest  maid  's  in  yon  town 
That  e'enin  sun  is  shining  on  1 


WHEREFORE   SIGHING   ART 
THOU,    PHILLIS.? 


Wherefore  sighing  art  thou,  Phillis  ? 

Has  thy  prime  unheeded  past  ? 
Hast  thou  found  that  beauty's  lilies 

Were  not  made  for  ay  to  last  ? 


Know,  thy  form  was  once  a  treasure  — 
Then  it  was  thy  hour  of  scorn  ! 

Since  thou  then  denied  the  pleasure. 
Now  't  is  fit  that  thou  should'st  mourn. 


O    MAY,   THY    MORN 

Supposed  to  commemorate  the  parting  with 
Clarinda,  6th  December,  1791. 


O  May,  thy  morn  was  ne'er  sae  sweet 
As  the  mirk  night  o'  December  ! 

For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine, 
And  private  was  the  chamber. 

And  dear  was  she  I  dare  na  name, 
But  I  will  ay  remember. 


And  here  's  to  them  that,  like  oursel, 
Can  push  about  the  jorum  ! 

And  here 's  to  them  that  wish  us  weel  • 
May  a'  that 's  guid  watch  o'er  'em  ! 

And  here  's  to  them  we  dare  na  tell, 
The  dearest  o'  the  quorum  ! 


AS  I  CAME   O'ER  THE   CAIRNEY 
MOUNT 

CHORUS 

O,  my  bonie  Highland  lad  I 

My   winsome,   weel-faur'd  Highland 
laddie  ! 
Wha  wad  mind  the  wind  and  rain 

Sae  weel  row'd  in  his  tartan  plaidie  ! 


As  I  came  o'er  the  Cairney  mount 

And  down  among  the  blooming  heather. 

Kindly  stood  the  milking-shiel 

To  shelter  frae  the  stormy  weather. 


Now  Phoebus  blinkit  on  the  bent, 

And   o'er  the   knowes   the   lambs  were 
bleating; 

But  he  wan  my  heart's  consent 
To  be  his  ain  at  the  neist  meeting. 

CHORUS 

O,  my  bonie  Highland  lad  ! 

My    winsome,    weel-faur'd  Highland 

laddie  ! 
Wha  wad  mind  the  wind  and  rain 

Sae  weel  row'd  in  his  tartan  plaidie  ! 


li 


LOVELY   POLLY   STEWART 


259 


HIGHLAND    LADDIE 

This  is  chiefly  an  abridgment  of  the  Jacob- 
i  ite  ditty,  The  Highland  Lad  and  the  Highland 
Lass,  published  in  A  Collection  of  Loyal  Songs 
(1750)  and  The  True  Loyalist  (1779).  The  re- 
frain is  old  ;  stanza  i.  is  Bums  ;  stanza  ii.  is 
substantially  stanza  i.  of  the  older  set ;  while 
stanza  iii.  is  composed  of  the  first  halves  of 
the  older  stanzas  viii.  and  ix. 


The  boniest  lad  that  e'er  I  saw  — 

Bonie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ! 

Wore  a  plaid  and  was  fu'  braw  — 

Bonie  Highland  laddie  ! 
On  his  head  a  bonnet  blue  — 

Bonie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ! 
His  royal  heart  was  firm  and  true  - 
Bonie  Highland  laddie  ! 


"  Trumpets  sound  and  cannons  roar, 
Bonie  lassie,  Lawland  lassie  !  — 
And  a'  the  hills  wi'  echoes  roar, 

Bonie  Lawland  lassie  ! 
Glory,  Honour,  now  invite  — 

Bonie  lassie,  Lawland  lassie  !  — 
For  freedom  and  my  King  to  fight, 
Bonie  Lawland  lassie  ! " 

III 
"  The  sun  a  backward  course  shall  take, 
Bonie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ! 
Ere  aught  thy  manly  courage  shake, 

Bonie  Highland  laddie  ! 
Go,  for  yoursel'  procure  renown, 
Bonie  laddie,  Highland  laddie, 
And  for  your  lawful  King  his  crown, 
Bonie  Highland  laddie  \  " 


WILT   THOU    BE    MY  DEARIE? 

In  a  MS.  sent  to  Maria  Eiddell,  "  Jeanie  "  is 
substituted  for  "  lassie."  In  view  of  the  fact 
that  Bums  sent  the  song  to  Captain  Miller's 
journal,  this  change  confirms  the  statement 
that  Wilt  Thou  be  My  Dearie  was  made  in 
honour  of  Miss  Janet  Miller  of  Dalswinton. 


WiXT  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 
When  Sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 


O,  wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 
By  the  treasure  of  my  soul  — 

That  '3  the  love  I  bear  thee  — 
I  swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie  ! 
Only  thou,  I  swear  and  vow, 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie  ! 


Lassie,  say  thou  lo'es  me, 
Or,  if  thou  wUt  na  be  my  ain, 

Say  na  thou  'It  refuse  me  ! 
If  it  winna,  canna  be, 

Thou  for  thine  may  choose  me, 
Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die. 

Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me  ! 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die, 

Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me  ! 


LOVELY   POLLY  STEWART 

Polly  or  Mary  Stewart  was  daughter  of 
William  Stewart,  factor  at  Closebnm,  to  whom 
BxuTis  addressed  To  William  Steivart  {ante,  p. 
146),  and  also  the  lines,  You  're  Welcome, 
Willie  Stewart  (post,  p.  311).  She  was  married 
first  to  her  cousin,  Ishmael  Stewart,  and  then 
to  a  farmer,  George  Welsh  (grand-uncle  of 
Jane  Welsh  Carlyle).  Being  separated  from 
Welsh,  she  fell  in  love  with  a  French  prisoner 
of  war,  whom  she  accompanied  to  his  native 
Switzerland.  She  died  in  Italy  at  the  age  of 
seventy -two.  The  present  song,  together  with 
You  're  Welcome,  Willie  Stewart,  is  modelled 
on  a  Jacobite  number  in  Collection  of  Loyal 
Songs  (1750). 

CHORUS 

O  lovely  Polly  Stewart, 
O  charming  Polly  Stewart, 
There  's  ne'er  a   flower  that   blooms   in 
May, 
That 's  half  so  fair  as  thou  art ! 


The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades,  it  fa's, 
And  art  can  ne'er  renew  it; 

But  Worth  and  Truth  eternal  youth 
Will  gie  to  Polly  Stewart  ! 


May  he  whase  arms  shall  fauld  thy  charms 
Possess  a  leal  and  true  heart  ! 


26o 


SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 
He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart ! 


CHORUS 


O  lovely  Polly  Stewart, 
O  charming  Polly  Stewart, 
There 's   ne'er   a  flower  that   blooms  in 
May, 
That 's  half  so  fair  as  thou  art ! 


THE    HIGHLAND    BALOU 

Stenhouse  states  that  it  is  "  a  versification, 
by  Bums,  of  a  Gaelic  nursery  song,  the  literal 
import  of  which,  as  well  as  the  air,  were  com- 
municated to  him  by  a  Highland  lady."  But 
there  are  humorous  touches  in  it  which  the 
original  (if  there  was  an  original)  could  not 
have  shown. 


Hee  balou,  my  sweet  wee  Donald, 
Picture  o'  the  great  Clanronald  ! 
Brawlie  kens  our  wanton  Chief 
Wha  gat  my  young  Highland  thief. 


Leeze  me  on  thy  bonie  craigie  ! 
An  thou  live,  thou  '11  steal  a  naigie. 
Travel  the  country  thro'  and  thro', 
And  bring  hame  a  Carlisle  cow  ! 


Thro'  the  Lawlands,  o'er  the  Border, 
Weel,  my  babie,  may  thou  furder, 
Herry  the  louns  o'  the  laigh  Countrie, 
Syne  to  the  Highlands  hame  to  me  ! 


BANNOCKS    O'   BEAR   MEAL 

CHORUS 

Bannocks  o'  bear  meal. 
Bannocks  o'  barley, 

Here  's  to  the  Highlandman's 
Bannocks  o'  barley  ! 


Wha  in  a  brulyie 

Will  first  cry  "  a  parley  "  ? 
Never  the  lads 

Wi'  the  bannocks  o'  barley  ! 


Wha,  in  his  wae  days, 
Were  loyal  to  Charlie  ? 

Wha  but  the  lads 

Wi'  the  bannocks  o'  barley  ! 


CHORUS 


Bannocks  o'  bear  meal, 

Bannocks  o'  barley. 
Here  's  to  the  Highlandman's 

Bannocks  o'  barley ! 


WAE    IS    MY   HEART 


Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear 's  in  my  e'e ; 
Lang,  lang  joy  's  been  a  stranger  to  me: 
Forsaken  and  friendless  my  burden  I  bear, 
And  the  sweet  voice  o'  pity  ne'er  sounds  in 
my  ear. 

II 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasures  —  and  deep  hae 

I  lov'd  ! 
Love,  thou  hast  sorrows  —  and  sair  hae  I 

prov'd  ! 
But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in 

my  breast, 
I  can  feel  by  its  throbbings,  will  soon  be  at 

rest. 

Ill 

O,  if  I  were  where  happy  I  hae  been, 
Down  by  yon  stream  and  yon  bonie  castle 


green 


For  there  he  is  wand'ring  and  musing  on 

me, 
Wha  wad  soon  dry  the  tear  f  rae  his  Phillis' 

e'e ! 


HERE  'S  HIS  HEALTH  IN  WATER 

I 

Altho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa', 
And  tho'  he  be  the  fautor, 

Altho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa'. 
Yet  here  's  his  health  in  water  ! 

O,  wae  gae  by  his  wanton  sides, 
Sae  brawly  's  he  could  flatter  ! 


THERE   GROWS    A   BONIE   BRIER-BUSH 


261 


Till  for  his  sake  I  'm  slighted  sair 
And  dree  the  kintra  clatter  ! 

But,  tho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa', 
Yet  here  's  his  health  in  water  ! 


THE   WINTER   OF    LIFE 

Bums  sent  a  copy  to  Thomson,  under  the 
title  of  The  Old  Man.  The  song  is  included  in 
Thomson  (Vol.  iii.). 

Doubtless  suggested  by  a  song  with  the 
same  title  which  we  have  found  in  The  Gold- 
Jinch  (Edinburgh,  1777)  :  — 

"  In  Spring,  my  dear  Shepherds,  your  gardens  are  gay. 
They  breathe  all  their  sweets  in  the  sunshine  of  Miy  : 
Their  Flowers  will  drop  when  December  draws  near  — 
The  winter  of  life  is  like  that  of  the  year,"  etc. 


But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day; 
Thro'  gentle  showers  the  laughing  flowers 

In  double  pride  were  gay; 
But  now  our  joys  are  fled 

On  winter  blasts  awa, 
Yet  maiden  May  in  rich  array 

Again  shall  bring  them  a'. 


But  my  white  pow  —  nae  kindly  thowe 

Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  Age  ! 
My  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  and  bield, 

Sinks  in  Time's  wintry  rage. 
O,  Age  has  weary  days 

And  nights  o'  sleepless  pain  ! 
Thou  golden  time  o'  youthfu'  prime. 

Why  comes  thou  not  again  ? 


THE   TAILOR 


The  tailor  he  cam  here  to  sew, 
And  weel  he  kend  the  way  to  woo, 
For  ay  he  pree'd  the  lassie's  mou', 
As  he  gaed  but  and  ben,  O. 
For  weel  he  kend  the  way,  O, 
The  way,  O,  the  way,  O  ! 
For  weel  he  kend  the  way,  O, 
The  lassie's  heart  to  win,  O  ! 


The  tailor  rase  and  shook  his  duds, 
The  flaes  they  flew  awa  in  cluds  ! 
And  them  that  stay'd  gat  fearfu'  thuds  — 
The  Tailor  prov'd  a  man,  O  ! 
For  now  it  was  the  gloamin, 
The  gloamin,  the  gloamin  ! 
For  now  it  was  the  gloamin, 
When  a'  the  rest  are  gaun,  O  ! 


THERE    GROWS   A    BONIE 
BRIER-BUSH 


There  grows  a  bonie  brier-bush  in  our 
kail-yard. 

There  grows  a  bonie  brier-bush  in  our  kail- 
yard; 

And  below  the  bonie  brier-bush  there 's  a 
lassie  and  a  lad. 

And  they  're  busy,  busy  courting  in  our 
kail-yard. 

II 
We  '11  court  nae  mair  below  the  buss  in 

our  kail-yard. 
We  '11  court   nae  mair  below  the  buss  in 

our  kail-yard: 
We  '11   awa  to  Athole's  green,  and   there 

we  '11  no  be  seen. 
Where  the  trees  and  the  branches  will  be 

our  safeguard. 

Ill 

Will  ye  go  to  the  dancin  in  Carlyle's  ha'  ? 
Will  ye  go  to  the  dancin  in  Carlyle's  ha', 
Where    Sandy  and    Nancy   I  'm  sure  will 

ding  them  a'  ? 
I  winna  gang  to  the  dance  in  Carlyle-ha'  ! 

IV 

What  will   I   do   for   a   lad  when  Sandie 

gangs  awa  ! 
What  will    I   do   for  a   lad  when   Sandie 

gangs  awa  ! 
I  will  awa  to  Edinburgh,  and  win  a  pennie 

fee, 
And  see  an  onie  lad  will  fancy  me. 


He  's  comin  frae  the  north  that 's  to  marry 

me. 
He 's  comin  frae  the  north  that 's  to  marry 

me. 


262  SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


A  feather  in  his  bonnet  and  a  ribbon  at  his 

knee  — 
He 's  a  bonie,  bonie  laddie,  an  yon  be  he  ! 


HERE'S   TO    THY   HEALTH 


Here  's  to  thy  health,  my  bonie  lass  ! 

Guid  night  and  joy  be  wi'  thee  ! 
I  '11  come  nae  mair  to  thy  bower-door 

To  tell  thee  that  I  lo'e  thee. 
O,  dinna  think,  my  pretty  pink, 

But  I  can  live  without  thee: 
I  vow  and  swear  I  dinna  care 

How  lang  ye  look  about  ye  ! 


Thou  'rt  ay  sae  free  informing  me 

Thou  hast  nae  mind  to  marry, 
I  '11  be  as  free  informing  thee 

Nae  time  hae  I  to  tarry. 
I  ken  thy  freens  try  ilka  means 

Frae  wedlock  to  delay  thee 
(Depending  on  some  higher  chance). 

But  fortune  may  betray  thee. 

Ill 

I  ken  they  scorn  my  low  estate. 

But  that  does  never  grieve  me. 
For  I  'm  as  free  as  any  he  — 

Sma'  siller  will  relieve  me  ! 
I  '11  count  my  health  my  greatest  wealth 

Sae  lang  as  I  '11  enjoy  it. 
I  '11  fear  nae  scant,  I  '11  bode  nae  want 

As  lang 's  I  get  employment. 


But  far  off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair. 

And,  ay  until  ye  try  them, 
Tho'  they  seem  fair,  still  have  a  care  — 

They  may  prove  as  bad  as  I  am  ! 
But  at  twel  at  night,  when  the  moon  shines 
bright, 

My  dear,  I  '11  come  and  see  thee. 
For  the  man  that  loves  his  mistress  weel, 

Nae  travel  makes  him  weary. 


IT   WAS  A'  FOR   OUR   RIGHTFU' 

KING 

[Suggested  by  the  chap-book  ballad  of 
Molly  Stewart,  circa  1746,  of  which  the  first 
and  last  stanzas  are  as  follows]  :  — 


"  '  The  cold  Winter  is  past  and  gone,  and  now  comes  in 

the  Spring, 
And  I  am  one  of  the  King's  Life-guards,  and  must  go 
fight  for  my  King, 

My  dear, 
I  must  go  fight  for  my  King.' 

The  trooper  turn'd  himself  about  all  on  the  Irish  shore, 
He  has  given  tlie  bridal-reins  a  shake,  saying  '  Adieu 
for  evermore, 

My  dear, 
Adieu  for  evermore.'  " 

Bums  used  the  last  as  his  own  central,  grouping 
his  others,  which  are  largely  suggested  by  it, 
round  about  it.  He  was  also  greatly  influenced 
by  the  first,  which  undoubtedly  helped  him  to 
his  own  beginning.  For  the  rest,  he  took  the 
situation  and  the  characters,  and  touched  his 
borrowings  to  issues  as  fine,  perhaps,  as  the 
Romantic  Lyric  has  to  show. 


It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king 
We  left  fair  Scotland's  strand; 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king, 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 
My  dear  — 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 


Now  a'  is  done  that  men  can  do. 

And  a'  is  done  in  vain. 
My  Love  and  Native  Land  fareweel, 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 
My  dear  — 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 


He  turn'd  him  right  and  round  about 

Upon  the  Irish  shore. 
And  gae  his  bridle  reins  a  shake, 

With  adieu  for  evermore. 
My  dear  — 

And  adieu  for  evermore  ! 


The  soger  frae  the  wars  returns, 

The  sailor  frae  the  main, 
But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love 

Never  to  meet  again. 
My  dear  — 

Never  to  meet  again. 

V 
When  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  come, 

And  a'  folk  bound  to  sleep, 
I  think  on  him  that 's  far  awa 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 

My  dear  — 
The  lee-lang  night  and  weep. 


Il 


MY   PEGGY'S   FACE,    MY    PEGGY'S   FORM 


263 


THE    HIGHLAND   WIDOW'S 
LAMENT 

[A  similar  refrain  occurs  in  an  old  song  in 
Johnson  (Vol.  i.),  said  to  have  been  a  lament 
for  Glencoe.] 


O,  I  AM  come  to  the  low  countrie  — 

Oehon,  ochon,  ochrie  !  — 
Without  a  peimy  in  my  purse 

To  buy  a  meal  to  me. 


It  was  na  sae  in  the  Highland  hills  — 

Ochon,  ochon,  ochrie  !  — 
Nae  woman  in  the  country  wide 

Sae  happy  was  as  me. 

Ill 

For  then  I  had  a  score  o'  kye  — 

Ochon,  ochon,  ochrie  !  — 
Feeding  on  yon  hill  sae  high 

And  giving  milk  to  me. 

IV 

And  there  I  had  three  score  o'  yowes- 

Ochon,  ochon,  ochrie  !  — 
Skipping  on  yon  bonie  knowes 

And  casting  woo'  to  me. 


I  was  the  happiest  of  a'  the  clan  — 
Sair,  sair  may  I  repine  !  — 

For  Donald  was  the  brawest  man, 
Aud  Donald  he  was  mine. 


Till  Charlie  Stewart  cam  at  last 

Sae  far  to  set  us  free: 
My  Donald's  arm  was  wanted  then 

For  Scotland  and  for  me. 

VII 

Their  waef u'  fate  what  need  I  tell  ? 

Right  to  the  wrang  did  yield: 
My  Donald  and  his  country  fell 

Upon  Culloden  field. 

VIII 

Ochon  !  0  Donald,  O  ! 

Ochon,  ochon,  ochrie  ! 
Nae  woman  in  the  warld  wide 

Sae  wretched  now  as  me  ! 


THOU    GLOOMY   DECEMBER 


Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  De- 
cember ! 
Ance  mair  I  hail  thee   wi'  sorrow  and 
care  ! 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  re- 
member : 
Parting   wi'    Xancy,    O,    ne'er   to   meet 
mair  ! 

II 

Fond  lovers'  parting  is  sweet,  painful  plea- 
sure, 
Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting 
hour; 
But  the  dire  feeling,  O  farewell  for  ever  ! 
Anguish  unmingled  and  agony  pure  ! 

Ill 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 

Till   the   last    leaf    o'   the    summer    is 

flown  — 

Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom, 

Till  my  last  hope   and   last  comfort  is 

gone  ! 


Still  as  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  Decem- 
ber, 
Still    shall   I   hail   thee  wi'  sorrow  and 
care; 
For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me 
remember: 
Parting   wi'    Nancy,    O,   ne'er  to  meet 
mair  ! 


MY  PEGGY'S  FACE,  MY  PEGGY'S 
FORM 

Written  in  1787,  and  sent  to  Johnson  ^dth 
the  following'  letter  :  "  Dear  Mr.  Publisher.  — 
I  hope,  ag-aiust  my  return,  you  wiU  be  able  to 
tell  me  from  Mr.  Clarke  if  these  words  will 
suit  the  tune.  If  they  don't  suit,  I  must  think 
on  some  other  air,  as  I  have  a  very  strong 
private  reason  for  wishing  them  in  the  second 
volume.  Don't  forget  to  transcribe  me  the 
list  of  the  Antiquarian  Music.  Farewell.  — 
R.  Burns."  No  reason  was  g-iven  by  Johnson 
for  the  delay  in  publishing  ;   but  it  is  probable 


264 


SONGS    FROM   JOHNSON'S    "MUSICAL  MUSEUM" 


that  Miss  Chalmers  (see  ante,  p.  214,  Prefatory 
Note  to  Where,  Braving  Angry  Winter'' s  Storms) 
objected. 


My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form 
The  frost  of  hermit  Age  might  warm. 
My  Peggy's  worth,  my  Peggy's  mind 
Might  charm  the  first  of  human  kind. 


I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air, 
Her  face  so  truly  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art; 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart. 


The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dye, 
The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye  — 
Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway  ? 
Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  ? 


The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear. 
The  generous  purpose  nobly  dear. 
The  gentle  look  that  rage  disarms  - 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


O,  STEER  HER  UP,  AN'  HAUD 
HER  GAUN 

The  first  half  stanza  is  Ramsay's,  from  a 
set  founded  on  an  old,  improper  ditty. 


O,  STEER  her  up,  an'  baud  her  gaun  — 

Her  niither  's  at  the  mill,  jo, 
An'  gin  she  winna  tak  a  man. 

E'en  let  her  tak  her  will,  jo. 
First  shore  her  wi'  a  gentle  kiss. 

And  ca'  auither  gill,  jo. 
An'  gin  she  tak  the  thing  amiss. 

E'en  let  her  flyte  her  till,  jo. 


O,  steer  her  up,  an'  be  na  blate, 

An'  gin  she  tak  it  ill,  jo, 
Then  leave  the  lassie  till  her  fate, 

And  time  nae  langer  spill,  jo  ! 
Ne'er  break  your  heart  for  ae  rebate, 

But  think  upon  it  still,  jo, 
That  gin  the  lassie  winna  do  't, 

Ye  'U  fin'  anither  will,  jo. 


WEE   WILLIE    GRAY 
A  nursery  ditty  for  the  tune  Wee  Totum  Fogg. 


Wee  Willie  Gray  an'  his  leather  wallet, 
Peel  a  willow-wand  to  be  him  boots  and 

jacket ! 
The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him  trouse 

and  doublet  — 
The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him  trouse 

and  doublet ! 


Wee  Willie  Gray  and  his  leather  wallet, 

Twice  a  lily-flower  will  be  him  sark  and 
gravat ! 

Feathers  of  a  flie  wad  feather  up  his  bon- 
net— 

Feathers  of  a  flie  wad  feather  up  his  bon- 
net! 


WE'RE   A'   NODDIN 

The  present  ditty  is  a  medley  of  two  old 
songs  with  variations  and  amendments,  John 
Anderson  My  Jo  [not  Bums's,  but  the  sprightly 
old  song  that  served  as  his  model]  —  -which 
gives  us  stanzas  iv.  and  v.,  the  best  things  in 
the  Burns  set,  verbatim  —  and  an  unpublished 
fragment  in  the  Herd  MS. :  — 

"  Cats  like  milk,  and  Dogs  like  Broo, 
Lads  like  lasses  and  lasses  lads  too  ; 
And  they  're  a'  nodding,  nidding,  niddiiig,  nodding, 
They  're  a'  nodding  at  our  house  at  hame. 

"  Kate  sits  i'  the  neuk  supping  hen  broo, 
Deil  take  Kate  if  she  does  not  know  it  too ; 
And  they  're  a'  nodding,  nidding,  nidding,  nodding, 
They  're  a'  nodding  at  our  house  at  hame." 


CHORUS 

We  're  a'  noddin, 
Nid  nid  noddin. 
We  're  a'  noddin 
At  our  house  at  hame  I 


"  GuiD  e'en  to  you,  kimraer, 
And  how  do  ye  do  ?  " 

"  Hiccup  !  "  quo'  kimmer, 

«  The  better  that  I  'm  fou  !  " 


O,   GUID   ALE   COMES 


265 


Kate  sits  i'  the  neuk, 

Suppin  hen-broo. 
Deil  tak  Kate 

An  she  be  na  noddin  too  ! 


Ill 


"  How  's  a'  wi'  you,  kimmer  ? 

And  how  do  you  fare  ?  " 
"  A  pint  o'  the  best  o't, 

And  twa  pints  mair  !  " 


IV 


"  How  's  a'  wi'  you,  kimmer  ? 
And  how  do  ye  thrive  ? 
How  monie  bairns  hae  ye  ?  " 
Quo'  kimmer,  "  I  hae  five." 


«  Are  they  a'  Johnie's  ?  " 
"  Eh  !  atweel  na: 
Twa  o'  them  were  gotten 
When  Johnie  was  awa  !  " 


Cats  like  milk, 

And  dogs  like  broo; 
Lads  like  lasses  weel, 

And  lasses  lads  too. 

CHORUS 

We  're  a'  noddin, 
Nid  nid  noddin, 
We  're  a'  noddin, 
At  our  house  at  hame  ! 


O,   AY  MY  WIFE  SHE    DANG    ME 
[Set  to  the  tune  of  My  Wife  She  Dang  Me.] 


O,  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 
An'  aft  my  wife  she  bang'd  me  ! 
If  ye  gie  a  woman  a'  her  will, 
Guid  faith  !  she  '11  soon  o'ergang  ye. 


On  peace  an'  rest  my  mind  was  bent, 
And,  fool  I  was  !  I  married; 

But  never  honest  man's  intent 
Sae  cursedly  miscarried. 


II 


Some  sairie  comfort  at  the  last, 
When  a'  thir  days  are  done,  man: 

My  "  pains  o'  hell  "  on  earth  is  past, 
I  'm  sure  o'  bliss  aboon,  man. 


CHORUS 


O,  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 
An'  aft  my  wife  she  bang'd  me  ! 
If  ye  gie  a  woman  a'  her  will, 
Guid  faith  !  she  '11  soon  o'ergang  ye. 


SCROGGAM 


There  was  a  wife  wonn'd  in  Cockpen, 

Scroggam  ! 
She  brew'd  guid  ale  for  gentlemen: 
Sing  Auld  Cowl,  lay  you  down  by  me  — 
Scroggam,  my  dearie,  ruffum  ! 


The  guidwife's  dochter  fell  in  a  fever, 

Scroggam  ! 
The  priest  o'  the  parish  fell  in  anither: 
Sing  Auld  Cowl,  lay  you  down  by  me  — 
Scroggam,  my  dearie,  ruffum  ! 

Ill 

They  laid  the  twa  i'  the  bed  thegither, 

Scroggam  ! 
That  the  heat  o'  the   tane  might  cool  the 

tither: 
Sing  Auld  Cowl,  lay  you  down  by  me  — 
Scroggam,  my  dearie,  ruffum  ! 


O,   GUID   ALE   COMES 

CHORUS 

O,  guid  ale  comes,  and  guid  ale  goes, 
Guid  ale  gars  me  sell  my  hose. 
Sell  mj^  hose,  and  pawn  my  shoon  — 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon  I 


I  HAD  sax  owsen  in  a  pleugh. 
And  they  drew  a'  weel  eneugh: 
I  sell'd  them  a'  just  ane  by  ane  — 
Guid  ale  keeps  the  heart  aboon  ! 


266  SONGS   FROM  JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL   MUSEUM" 


Guid  ale  bauds  me  bare  and  busy, 
Gars  me  moop  wi'  the  servant  bizzie, 
Stand  i'  tbe  stool  wben  I  bae  dune  — ■ 
Guid  ale  keeps  tbe  beart  aboon  ! 


CHORUS 


O,  guid  ale  comes,  and  guid  ale  goes, 
Guid  ale  gars  me  sell  my  bose, 
Sell  my  bose,  and  pawn  my  shoon  — 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  beart  aboon  ! 


ROBIN   SHURE    IN   HAIRST 

"  I  am  still  catering  for  Johnson's  publica- 
tion, and  among  others,  I  have  brushed  up  the 
following  old  favourite  song  a  little,  with  a 
view  to  your  worship.  I  have  only  altered  a 
word  here  and  there  ;  but  if  you  like  the  hu- 
mour of  it,  we  shall  think  of  a  stanza  or  two 
to  add  to  it."  (R.  B.  to  Robert  Ainslie,  Janu- 
ary 6tb,  1789.) 

CHORUS 

Robin  sbure  in  bairst, 

I  sbure  vri'  bim: 
Fient  a  beuk  bad  I, 

Yet  I  stack  by  him. 


I  GAED  up  to  Dunse 

To  warp  a  wab  o'  plaiden 
At  bis  daddie's  yett 

Wba  met  me  but  Robin  ! 


Was  na  Robin  bauld, 
Tho'  I  was  a  cottar  ? 

Play'd  me  sic  a  trick. 

An'  me  the  EUer's  docbter  ! 


Robin  promis'd  me 

A'  my  winter  vittle: 
Fient  baet  be  bad  but  three 

Guse  feathers  and  a  whittle  ! 


Robin  sbure  in  bairst, 
I  sbure  wi'  bim: 

Fient  a  beuk  bad  I, 
Yet  I  stack  by  him. 


DOES  HAUGHTY  GAUL  INVASION 
THREAT.? 


Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat  ? 

Then  let  tbe  loons  beware.  Sir  ! 
There  's  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas 

And  volunteers  on  shore,  Sir  ! 
Tbe  Nitb  shall  run  to  Corsincon, 

And  Criffel  sink  in  Solway, 
Ere  we  permit  a  foreign  foe 

On  British  ground  to  rally  ! 


O,  let  us  not,  like  snarling  tykes, 

In  wrangling  be  divided. 
Till,  slap  !  come  in  an  unco  loun, 

And  wi'  a  rung  decide  it ! 
Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

Amang  oursels  united  ! 
For  never  but  by  British  hands 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted  ! 


The  kettle  o'  tbe  Kirk  and  State, 

Perhaps  a  clout  may  fail  in  't ; 
But  Deil  a  foreign  tinkler  loon 

Shall  ever  ca'  a  nail  in  't  ! 
Our  fathers'  blude  tbe  kettle  bought, 

And  wba  wad  dare  to  spoil  it. 
By  Heav'ns  !  tbe  sacrilegious  dog 

Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it ! 


Tbe  wretch  that  would  a  tyrant  own. 

And  tbe  wretch,  bis  true-sworn  brother. 
Who  would  set  tbe  mob  above  tbe  throne. 

May  they  be  damn'd  together  ! 
Who  will  not  sing  God  save  the  King 

Shall  bang  as  high  's  tbe  steeple ; 
But  while  we  sing  God  save  the  King, 

We  '11  ne'er  forget  tbe  People  I 


O,  ONCE   1   LOV'D  A  BONIE  LASS 

"  The  following  composition  was  the  first  of 
my  performances,  and  done  at  an  early  period 
of  life,  when  my  heart  glowed  with  honest 
warm  simplicity ;  unacquainted,  and  uncor- 
rupted  with  the  ways  of  a  wicked  world.  The 
performance  is,  indeed,  very  puerile  and  silly : 
but  I  am  always  pleased  with  it,  as  it  recalls 


MY   LORD   A-HUNTING 


267 


to  my  mind  those  happy  days  when  my  heart 
was  yet   honest  and  my  tongue   was  sincere. 
I  The  subject  of  it  was  a  young  girl  who  really  de- 
served all  the  praises  I  have  bestowed  on  her." 
i  (R.  B.)     In  the  Autobiographical  Letter  to  Dr. 
Moore,  he  states  that  the  young  gii-1  was  his 
partner  in  "  the  labors  of  harvest."     "  Among 
her  other  love-inspiring  qualifications,"  so  he 
further  relates,  "  she  sung  sweetly  ;  and  "t  was 
her  favourite  reel  to  which  I  attempted  giving 
'  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.     I  was  not  so 
;  presumptive  as  to  imagine  that  I  would  make 
!  verses  like  printed  ones,  composed  by  men  who 
'  had  Greek  and  Latin ;  but  my  g^rl  sung  a  song 
which  was  said   to   be   composed  by  a   small 
country   laird's   son,    on    one    of    his   father's 
maids,  with  whom  he  was  in  love  ;  and  I  saw 
no  reason  why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he, 
for  except  shearing  sheep  and  casting  peats, 
his  father  living  in  the  moors,  he  had  no  more 
scholarcraft  than  I  had." 

His  criticism  of  the  song  (in  the  First  Com- 
mon Place  Book)  is  interesting  enough  to  re- 
print in  full :  ''  The  first  distich  of  the  first 
stanza  is  quite  too  much  in  the  flimsy  strain  of 
our  ordinary  street  ballads ;  and  on  the  other 
hand,  the  second  distich  is  too  much  in  the  other 
extreme.  The  expression  is  a  little  awkward, 
and  the  sentiment  too  serious.  Stanza  the 
second  I  am  well  pleased  with,  and  I  think  it 
conveys  a  fine  idea  of  that  amiable  part  of  the 
Sex  —  the  agreeables ;  or  what  in  our  Scotch 
dialect  we  call  a  sweet  sonsy  Lass.  The  third 
stanza  has  a  little  of  the  flimsy  turn  in  it ;  and 
the  third  line  has  rather  too  serious  a  cast. 
The  fourth  stanza  is  a  very  indifferent  one ; 
the  first  line  is,  indeed,  all  in  tlie  strain  of  the 
second  stanza,  but  the  rest  is  mostly  an  exple- 
tive. The  thoughts  in  the  fifth  stanza  come 
finely  up  to  my  favourite  idea,  a  sweet  sonsy 
Lass ;  the  last  line,  however,  halts  a  little. 
The  same  sentiments  are  kept  up  with  equal 
spirit  and  tenderness  in  the  sixth  stanza,  but 
the  second  and  fourth  lines  ending  with  short 
syllables  hurts  the  whole.  The  seventh  stanza 
has  several  minute  faults ;  but  I  remember  I 
composed  it  in  a  wild  enthusiasm  of  passion, 
and  to  this  hour  I  never  recollect  it,  but  my 
heart  melts,  and  my  blood  sallies  at  the  re- 
membrance." 


0,  ONCE  I  lov'd  a  bonie  lass, 

Ay,  and  I  love  her  still  ! 
And  whilst  that  virtue  warms  my  breast, 

I  '11  love  my  handsome  Nell. 


As  bonie  lasses  I  hae  seen, 
And  monie  full  as  braw, 


But  for  a  modest  gracefu'  mien 
The  like  I  never  saw. 


A  bonie  lass,  I  will  confess, 

Is  pleasant  to  the  e'e; 
But  without  some  better  qualities 

She  's  no  a  lass  for  me. 


But  Nelly's  looks  are  blythe  and  sweet, 

And,  what  is  best  of  a'. 
Her  reputation  is  complete 

And  fair  without  a  flaw. 


She  dresses  ay  sae  clean  and  neat. 

Both  decent  and  genteel; 
And  then  there  's  something  in  her  gait 

Gars  onie  dress  look  weel. 


A  gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  touch  the  heart; 

But  it 's  innocence  and  modesty 
That  polishes  the  dart. 

VII 

'T  is  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 
'T  is  this  enchants  my  soul ; 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 
She  reigns  without  controul. 


MY   LORD   A-HUNTING 

CHORUS 

My  lady's  gown,  there 's  gairs  upon 't, 
And  gowden  flowers  sae  rare  upon  't; 
But  Jenny's  jimps  and  jirkinet, 
My  lord  thinks  meikle  mair  upon  't ! 


]VIy  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane, 

But  hounds  or  hawks  wi'  him  are  nane; 

By  Colin's  cottage  lies  his  game, 

If  Colin's  Jenny  be  at  hame. 


My  lady  's  white,  my  lady  's  red, 
And  kith  and  kin  o'  Cassillis'  bliide; 
But  her  ten-puud  lands  o'  tocher  guid 
"Were  a'  the  charms  his  lordship  lo'ed. 


268 


SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL  MUSEUM" 


Out  o'er  yon  muir,  out  o'er  yon  moss, 
Whare  gor-cocks  thro'  the  heather  pass, 
There  wous  auld  Coliu's  bonie  lass, 
A  lily  in  a  wilderness. 


Sae  sweetly  move  her  genty  limbs. 
Like  music  notes  o'  lovers'  hymns  ! 
The  diamond-dew  in  her  eeu  sae  blue, 
Where  laughing  love  sae  wanton  swims  ! 


My  lady 's  dink,  my  lady  's  drest, 
The  flower  and  fancy  o'  the  west; 
But  the  lassie  that  a  man  lo'es  best, 
O,  that 's  the  lass  to  mak  him  blest ! 

CHORUS 

My  lady  's  gown,  there  's  gairs  upon  't, 
And  gowden  flowers  sae  rare  upon  't; 
But  Jenny's  jimps  and  jirkinet, 
My  lord  thinks  meikle  mair  upon  't ! 


SWEETEST   MAY 

An  imitation,  open  and  unabashed,  of  Ram- 
say's My  Sweetest  May,  Let  Love  Incline  Thee. 


Sweetest  May,  let  Love  inspire  thee  ! 
Take  a  heart  which  he  designs  thee: 
As  thy  constant  slave  regard  it. 
For  its  faith  and  truth  reward  it. 


Proof  o'  shot  to  birth  or  money, 
Not  the  wealthy  but  the  bonie. 
Not  the  high-born  but  noble-minded, 
In  love's  silken  band  can  bind  it. 


MEG   O'   THE   MILL 


O,  KEN  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  got- 
ten ? 

An'  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  got- 
ten? 


A  braw  new  naig  wi'  the  tail  o'  a  rottan. 
And  that 's  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  got- 
ten ! 


O,  ken  ye   what  Meg  o'  the   Mill  lo'es 

dearly  ? 
An'  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  lo'es 

dearly  ? 
A  dram  o'  guid  strunt  in  a  morning  early. 
And   that  's   what  Meg  o'  the  Mill   lo'es 

dearly  ! 


O,  ken  ye  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was  mar- 
ried ? 

An'  ken  ye  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was  mar- 
ried ? 

The  priest  he  was  oxter'd,  the  dark  he  was 
carried. 

And  that  's  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was  mar- 
ried ! 

IV 

0,    ken    ye    how  Meg  o'  the   Mill   was 

bedded  ? 
An'  ken   ye   how  Meg  o'    the   Mill  was 

bedded  ? 
The  groom  gat  sae  fu'  he  fell  awald  beside 

it, 
And  that 's    how  Meg  o'    the  Mill  was 

bedded  ! 


TOCKIE'S   TA'EN  THE   PARTING 
KISS 


JOCKIE  's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss, 
O'er  the  mountains  he  is  gane, 

And  with  him  is  a'  my  bliss  — 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 


Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain  ! 

Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snaw. 
Drifting  o'er  the  frozen  plain  ! 

Ill 

When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O'er  the  day's  fair  gladsome  e'e, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep, 
Sweetly  blythe  his  waukeniug  be  ! 


ii 


THERE  'S   NEWS,   LASSES,   NEWS 


269 


IV 


He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 
Fondly  he  '11  repeat  her  name; 

For  where'er  he  distant  roves, 
Jockie's  heart  is  still  at  hame. 


O,   LAY   THY   LOOF    IN    MINE, 
LASS 

CHORUS 

O,  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass. 
In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass. 
And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 
That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain  ! 


A  SLAVE  to  Love's  unbounded  sway. 
He  aft  has  wrought  me  meikle  wae; 
But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae. 
Unless  thou  be  my  ain. 


There  's  monie  a  lass  has  broke  my  rest. 
That  for  a  blink  I  hae  lo'ed  best; 
But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breast, 
For  "ever  to  remain. 

CHORUS 

O,  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 
Li  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass. 
And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 
That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain  ! 


CAULD    IS    THE    E'ENIN    BLAST 


Cauld  is  the  e'enin  blast 
O'  Boreas  o'er  the  pool 

An*  dawin,  it  is  dreary, 

When  birks  are  bare  at  Yule. 


O,  cauld  blaws  the  e'enin  blast, 
When  bitter  bites  the  frost. 

And  in  the  mirk  and  dreary  drift 
The  hills  and  glens  are  lost ! 


Ne'er  sae  murky  blew  the  night 
That  drifted  o'er  the  hill. 

But  bonie  Peg-a-Ramsay 
Gat  grist  to  her  mill. 


THERE   WAS   A   BONIE   LASS 
A  cento  of  old  catch  words. 


There  was  a  bonie  lass,  and  a  bonie,  bonie 
lass. 
And  she  loed  her  bonie  laddie  dear, 
Till  War's  loud  alarms  tore  her  laddie  frae 
her  arms 
Wi'  monie  a  sigh  and  a  tear. 

n 

Over  sea,  over  shore,  where  the  cannons 
loudly  roar, 
He  still  was  a  stranger  to  fear, 
And  nocht  could  him  quail,  or  his  bosom 
assail. 
But  the  bonie  lass  he  loed  sae  dear. 


THERE'S    NEWS,  LASSES,  NEWS 

chorus 

The  wean  wants  a  cradle, 
And  the  cradle  wants  a  cod, 

An'  I  '11  no  gang  to  my  bed 
Until  I  get  a  nod. 


There  's  news,  lasses,  news, 
Guid  news  I  've  to  tell ! 

There  's  a  boatfu'  o'  lads 
Come  to  our  town  to  sell ! 


"  Father,"  quo'  she,  "  Mither,"  quo'  she, 
"  Do  what  you  can : 
I  '11  no  gang  to  my  bed 
Until  I  get  a  man  !  " 

III 

I  hae  as  guld  a  craft  rig 
As  made  o'  yird  and  stane; 


270  SONGS   FROM   JOHNSON'S   "MUSICAL  MUSEUM" 


And  waly  fa'  the  ley-crap 
For  I  maun  till'd  again. 


CHORUS 


The  wean  wants  a  cradle, 
And  the  cradle  wants  a  cod, 

An'  I  '11  no  gang  to  my  bed 
Until  I  get  a  nod. 


O,  THAT    I    HAD    NE'ER   BEEN 
MARRIED 

CHORUS 

Ance  crowdie,  twice  crowdie, 
Three  times  crowdie  in  a  day  ! 

Gin  ye  crowdie  onie  mair, 

Ye  '11  crowdie  a'  my  meal  away. 


O,  THAT  I  had  ne'er  been  married, 
I  wad  never  had  nae  care  ! 

Now  I  've  gotten  wife  an'  bairus, 
An'  they  cry  "  Crowdie  "  evermair. 


Waefu'  Want  and  Hunger  fley  me, 
Glowrin  by  the  hallan  en'; 

Sair  I  fecht  them  at  the  door, 
But  ay  I  'm  eerie  they  come  ben. 

CHORUS 

Ance  crowdie,  twice  crowdie, 
Three  times  crowdie  in  a  day  ! 

Gin  ye  crowdie  onie  mair, 

Ye  '11  crowdie  a'  my  meal  away. 


MALLY  'S  MEEK,  MALLY  'S  SWEET 

CHORUS 

Mally  's  meek,  Mally  's  sweet, 
Mally  's  modest  and  discreet, 
Mally  's  rare,  Mally  's  fair, 
Mally  's  ev'ry  way  complete. 


As  I  was  walking  up  the  street, 
A  barefit  maid  I  chanc'd  to  meet; 

But  O,  the  road  was  very  hard 

For  that  fair  maiden's  tender  feet  ! 


It  were  mair  meet  that  those  fine  feet 
Were  weel  laced  up  in  silken  shoon  ! 

An'  'twere  more  fit  that  she  should  sit 
Within  yon  chariot  gilt  aboon  ! 

Ill 

Her  yellow  hair,  beyond  compare, 

Comes   tumbling  down  her  swan-white 
neck, 

And  her  twa  eyes,  like  stars  in  skies. 
Would  keep  a  sinking  ship  frae  wreck  ! 

CHORUS 

Mally  's  meek,  Mally  's  sweet, 
Mally  's  modest  and  discreet, 
Mally  's  rare,  Mally  's  fair, 
Mally 's  ev'ry  way  complete. 


WANDERING   WILLIE 


Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  WiUie, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  baud  awa  hame  ! 

Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ae  only  dearie. 
And  tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie 
the  same. 


Loud   tho'  the  Winter  blew  cauld  at  our 
parting, 
'Twas  na  the  blast  brought  the  tear  in 
my  e'e: 
Welcome  now   Simmer,  and   welcome  my 
Willie, 
The  Simmer  to  Nature,  my  Willie  to  me  I 


Rest,  ye  wild  storms  in  the  cave  o'  your 

slumbers  — 

How  your  wild  howling  a  lover  alarms  ! 

Wauken,  ye  breezes,  row  gently,  ye  billows, 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to 

my  arms. 

IV 

But  O,  if  he 's  faithless,  and  minds  na  his 
Nannie, 
Flow  still  between  us,  thou  wide-roaring 
main  ! 
May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it. 
But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie  's  my 
ain ! 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  TO   ME,   O 


271 


BRAW    LADS    O'    GALLA   WATER 


Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 

They  rove  amang  the  blooming  heather; 

But  Yarrow  braes  nor  Ettrick  shaws 
Can  match  the  lads  o'  Galla  Water. 


But  there  is  ane,  a  secret  ane, 
Aboon  them  a'  I  loe  him  better; 

And  I  '11  be  his,  and  he  '11  be  mine. 
The  bouie  lad  o'  Galla  Water. 


Altho'  his  daddie  was  nae  laird. 
And  tho'  I  hae  nae  meikle  tocher, 

Yet,  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love. 

We  '11  tent  our  flocks  by  Galla  Water. 

IV 

It  ne'er  was  wealth,  it  ne'er  was  wealth, 
That  coft  contentment,  peace,  and  plea- 
sure : 

The  bands  and  bliss  o'  mutual  love, 
O,  that 's  the  chiefest  warld's  treasure  ! 


AULD    ROB    MORRIS 


There  's  Auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in 

yon  glen. 
He 's  the  king  o'  guid  fellows  and  wale  of 

auld  men: 
He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen 

and  kine. 
And  ae  bonie  lassie,  his  dautie  and  mine. 


She  's  fresh  as  the  morning  the  fairest  in 

May, 
She 's  sweet  as  the  ev'ning  amang  the  new 

hay, 
As  blythe  and  as  artless  as  the  lambs  on 

the  lea. 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  e'e. 


But  O,  she  's  an  heiress,  auld  Robin 's  a 

laird, 
And  my  daddie  has  nocht  but  a  cot-house 

and  yard  ! 


A  wooer  like  me  maunna   hope   to  come 

speed: 
The  wounds  I  must  hide  that  will  soon  be 

my  dead. 


The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings 

me  naue; 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is 

gane; 
I    wander   my   lane   like  a  night-troubled 

ghaist. 
And  I  sigh  as  my  heart  it  wad  burst  in  mj 

breast. 


O,  had  she  but  been  of  a  lower  degree, 

I  then  might  hae  hop'd  she  wad  smil'd 
upon  me  ! 

O,  how  past  descriving  had  then  been  my 
bliss, 

As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  ex- 
press ! 


OPEN    THE    DOOR   TO    ME,  O 


O,  OPEN  the  door  some  pity  to  shew, 

If  love  it  may  na  be,  O  ! 
Tho'  thou  hast  been  false,  I  '11  ever  prove 

true  — 
O,  open  the  door  to  me,  0  ! 


Cauld  is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek, 
But  caulder  thy  love  for  me,  O  : 

The  frost,  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart, 
Is  nought  to  my  pains  frae  thee,  O  ! 


The  wan  moon  sets  behind  the  white  wave. 
And  Time  is  setting  with  me,  O  : 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell  !  for  mair 
I  '11  ne'er  trouble  them  nor  thee,  O  ! 


She  has  open'd  the  door,  she  has  open'd  it 
wide. 
She  sees  the  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  O, 
"  My  true  love  !  "  she  cried,  and  sank  down 
by  his  side  — 
Never  to  rise  again,  O  ! 


272 


SONGS   FROM  THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS" 


WHEN   WILD   WAR'S    DEADLY 
BLAST 


When  wild  War's  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 

And  gentle  Peace  returning, 
Wi'  nionie  a  sweet  babe  fatherless 

And  monie  a  widow  mourning, 
I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 

Where  lang  I'd  been  a  lodger. 
My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth, 

A  poor  and  honest  sodger. 


A  leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast, 

My  hand  unstain'd  wi'  plunder, 
And  for  fair  Scotia,  hame  again, 

I  cheery  on  did  wander: 
I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  CoU, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 
And  ay  I  mind't  the  witching  smile 

That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

Ill 

At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonie  gleu, 

Where  early  life  I  sported. 
I  pass'd  the  mill  and  trysting  thorn, 

Where  Nancy  aft  I  courted. 
Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling, 
And  turn'd  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 

That  in  my  een  was  swelling  ! 


Wi'  alter'd  voice,  quoth  I :  —  "  Sweet  lass, 

Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom, 
O,  happy,  happy  may  he  be. 

That 's  dearest  to  thy  bosom  ! 
My  purse  is  light,  I  've  far  to  gang, 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger; 
I  've  serv'd  my  king  and  country  lang  — 

Take  pity  on  a  sodger." 


Sae  wistfully  she  gaz'd  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever. 
Quo'  she :  —  "A  sodger  ance  I  lo'ed, 

Forget  him  shall  I  never. 
Our  humble  cot,  and  hamely  fare. 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it; 
That  gallant  badge  —  the  dear  cockade  — 

Ye  're  welcome  for  the  sake  o't  !  " 


She  gaz'd,  she  redden'd  like  a  rose, 

Syne,  pale  like  onie  lily. 
She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried:  — 

"  Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ?  " 
"  By  Him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky, 

By  whom  true  love  's  regarded, 
I  am  the  man !     And  thus  may  still 

True  lovers  be  rewarded  ! 


"  The  wars  are  o'er  and  I  'm  come  hame, 

And  find  thee  still  true-hearted. 
Tho'  poor  in  gear,  we  're  rich  in  love, 

And  mair,  we  'se  ne'er  be  parted." 
Quo'  she:  "  My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  mailen  plenish'd  fairly  ! 
And  come,  my  faithfu'  sodger  lad, 

Thou  'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly  !  " 

VIII 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor; 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize, 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honour  ! 
The  brave  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise, 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger: 
Remember  he  's  his  country's  stay 

In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


DUNCAN   GRAY 

Enclosed,  together  with  Auld  Bob  Morris,  to 
Thomson  4th  December,  1792  :  "  The  foregoing 
I  submit,  my  dear  Sir,  to  your  better  judgment ; 
acquit  them  or  condemn  them  as  seemeth  good 
in  thy  sight.  Duncan  Gray  is  that  kind  of 
lighthorse  gallop  of  an  air  which  precludes 
sentiment.    The  ludicrous  is  its  ruling  feature." 


Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !) 
On  blythe  Yule-Night  when  we  were  fou 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't !). 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh  — 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  ! 

II 

Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !), 


LET  NOT   WOMEN   E'ER  COMPLAIN 


273 


Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  craig 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !). 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  an'  blin', 
Spak  o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn  — 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ! 

Ill 

Time  and  Chance  are  but  a  tide 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !): 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !). 

"  Shall  I  like  a  fool,"  quoth  he, 

"  For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ? 

She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  !  "  ■ 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  ! 


How  it  comes,  let  doctors  tell 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't !) : 
Meg  grew  sick,  as  he  grew  hale 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !). 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings, 
And  O  !  her  een  they  spak  sic  things  !  ■ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ! 


Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !), 

Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  !) : 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death. 

Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath; 

Now  they  're  crouse  and  cauty  baith  • 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ! 


DELUDED    SWAIN,    THE    PLEA- 
SURE 


Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 

The  fickle  Fair  can  give  thee 
Is  but  a  fairy  treasure  — 

Thy  hopes  will  soon  deceive  thee: 
The  billows  on  the  ocean, 

The  breezes  idly  roaming. 
The  cloud's  uncertain  motion, 

They  are  but  types  of  Woman  ! 


O,  art  thou  not  ashamed 
To  doat  upon  a  feature  ? 


If  Man  thou  would'st  be  nam^d, 
Despise  the  silly  creature  ! 

Go,  find  an  honest  fellow. 
Good  claret  set  before  thee. 

Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow. 
And  then  to  bed  in  glory  ! 


HERE    IS    THE   GLEN 

"  I  know  you  value  a  composition  because  it 
is  made  by  one  of  the  great  ones  as  little  as  I 
do.  However,  I  got  an  air,  pretty  enough, 
composed  by  Lady  Elizabeth  Heron  of  Heron, 
which  she  calls  The  Banks  of  Cree.  Cree  is  a 
beautiful  romantic  stream,  and,  as  her  ladyship 
is  a  particidar  friend  of  mine,  I  have  written 
the  following  song  to  it."    (R.  B.  to  Thomson.) 

The  tune  did  not  please  Thomson,  who  set 
the  verses  to  The  Flowers  of  Edinburgh.  That 
they  made  a  love-song  for  Maria  Riddell,  as 
some  hold,  is  scarce  consistent  with  Burns's 
statement.  Moreover,  he  must  have  intended 
that  Lady  Elizabeth  Heron  shoxdd  see  them. 


Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower 

All  underneath  the  birchen  shade, 
The  village-bell  has  toll'd  the  hour  — 

O,  what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  ? 
'T  is  not  Maria's  whispering  call  — 

'T  is  but  the  balmy-breathing  gale, 
Mixed  with  some  warbler's  dying  fall 

The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail ! 


It  is  Maria's  voice  I  hear  !  — 

So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove 
His  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer: 

At  once  'tis  music  and  'tis  love  ! 
And  art  thou  come  ?     And  art  thou  true  ? 

O,  welcome,  dear,  to  love  and  me. 
And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew 

Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree  ! 


LET    NOT  WOMEN   E'ER    COM- 
PLAIN 

Alternative  English  words  to  the  tune  Dun- 
can Gray :  "  These  English  songs  gravel  me 
to  death.  I  have  not  that  command  of  the 
language  that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue. 
In  fact,  I  think  my  ideas  are  more  barren  in 
English  than  in  Scottish.    I  have  been  at  Dun- 


!74 


SONGS   FROM   THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS" 


can  Gray  to  dress  it  in  English,  but  all  I  can 
do  is  deplorably  stupid."  (K.  B.  to  Thomson, 
l<Jth  October,  1794.)  There  is  nothing  to  add 
to  this,  except  that  the  song  exists  (if  that  can 
be  said  to  exist  which  is  never  sung,  never 
quoted,  and  if  ever  read,  immediately  forgot- 
ten) as  pure  Burns. 


Let  not  women  e'er  complain 

Of  inconstancy  in  love  ! 
Let  not  women  e'er  complain 

Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove  ! 
Look  abroad  thro'  Nature's  range, 
Nature's  mighty  law  is  change: 
Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange 

Man  should  then  a  monster  prove  ? 


Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies, 
Ocean's  ebb  and  ocean's  flow. 

Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise. 
Round  and  round  the  seasons  go. 

Why  then,  ask  of  silly  man 

To  oppose  great  Nature's  plan  ? 

We  '11  be  constant,  while  we  can  — 
You  can  be  no  more,  you  know  ! 


LORD    GREGORY 

Written,  at  Thomson's  request,  to  the  air  of 
The  Lass  of  Lochryan. 

Peter  Pindar  (Dr.  Wolcott)  wrote  English 
verses  for  Thomson  on  the  same  theme.  They 
are  frigid  rubbish;  but  "the  very  name  of 
Peter  Pindar  is  an  acquisition  to  your  work. 
His  Gregory  is  beautiful.  I  have  tried  to  give 
you  a  set  of  stanzas  in  Scots  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, vrhich  are  at  your  service.  Not  that  I  in- 
tend to  enter  the  lists  with  Peter  —  that  would 
be  presumption  indeed !  My  song,  though 
much  inferior  in  poetic  merit,  has,  I  think, 
more  of  the  ballad  simplicity  in  it."  (R.  B.  to 
Thomson,  26th  January,  1793.) 


O,  MIRK,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour, 
And  loud  the  tempest's  roar  ! 

A  waef u'  wanderer  seeks  thy  tower  — 
Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door. 


An  exile  frae  her  father's  ha', 
And  a'  for  sake  o'  thee, 


At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw, 
If  love  it  may  na  be. 


Ill 


Lord  Gregory,  mind'st  thou  not  the  grove 

By  bonie  Irwine  side. 
Where  first  I  own'd  that  virgin  love 

I  lang,  lang  had  denied  ? 


How  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow. 

Thou  wad  for  ay  be  mine  ! 
And  my  fond  heart,  itsel'  sae  true. 

It  ne'er  mistrusted  thine. 


Hard  is  thy  heart,  Lord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast: 
Thou  bolt  of  Heaven  that  flashest  by, 

O,  vsdlt  thou  bring  me  rest ! 

VI 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above. 

Your  willing  victim  see. 
But  spare  and  pardon  my  fause  love 

His  wrangs  to  Heaven  and  me  ! 


O    POORTITH    CAULD 

Gilbert  Bums  told  Thomson  that  Burns's 
heroine  was  "  a  Miss  Jane  Blackstock,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Whittier  of  Liverpool."  But  it 
was  probably  Jean  Lorimer  (see  post,  p.  289, 
Prefatory  Note  to  Lassie  wV  the  Lint-white 
Locks),  who  was  then  contemplating  the  mar- 
riage of  which  she  instantly  repented.  0  Poor- 
tith  Cauld  is  held  to  refer  to  her  rejecting  a 
ganger  for  the  man  she  married  (see  ante, 
p.  231,  Prefatory  Note  to  Craigieburn  Wood). 
It  was  sent  to  Thomson  in  January,  1793, 
for  the  tune  of  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen  ;  but 
Thomson  thought  the  verses  had  "  too  much  of 
uneasy,  cold  reflection  for  the  air."  To  this 
Burns  :  "  The  objections  are  just,  but  I  cannot 
make  it  better.  The  sUiff  won't  bear  mend- 
ing ;  yet  for  private  reasons,  I  should  like  to  see 
it  in  print."  With  a  new  chorus  and  other 
amendments,  it  was  set  in  the  end  to  I  Had  a 
Horse  and  I  Had  Nae  Mair. 

CHORUS 
O,  why  should  Fate  sic  pleasure  have, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untvduing  ? 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

Depend  on  Fortune's  shining  ? 


SAW   YE   BONIE   LESLEY 


275 


O  PooRTiTH  cauld  and  restless  Love, 
Ye  wrack  my  peace  between  ye  ! 

Yet  poortith  a'  I  could  forgive, 
An  't  were  na  for  ray  Jeanie. 


The  warld's  wealth  when  I  think  on. 
Its  pride  and  a'  the  lave  o't  — 

My  curse  on  silly  coward  man, 
That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't ! 


Her  een  sae  bonle  blue  betray 
How  she  repays  my  passion; 

But  prudence  is  her  o'er  word  ay: 
She  talks  o'  rank  and  fashion. 


O,  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 
And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 

O,  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 
And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 


How  blest  the  wild-wood  Indian's  fate  ! 

He  woos  his  artless  dearie  — 
The  silly  bogles.  Wealth  and  State, 

Can  never  make  him  eerie. 

CHORUS 

O,  why  should  Fate  sic  pleasure  have. 
Life's  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 

Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 
Depend  on  Fortune's  shining  ? 


O,   STAY,    SWEET   WARBLING 
WOOD-LARK 


O,  STAT,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay. 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray  ! 
A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay, 

Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 
Again,  again  that  tender  part, 
That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art  ! 
For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 

Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 


Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind. 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 
O,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd 

Sic  notes  o'  woe  could  wauken  ! 
Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care, 
O'  speechless  grief  and  dark  despair  — 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair, 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 


SAW   YE   BONIE    LESLEY 

"  Bonie  Lesley "  was  Miss  Leslie  Baillie, 
daughter  of  Mr.  Baillie  of  Mayfield,  Ayrshire. 
She  married,  in  June,  1799,  Mr.  Robert  Cum- 
miag  of  Logie,  and  died  in  July,  1843.  "  The 
heart-struck  awe,  the  distant  humble  approach, 
the  delight  we  should  have  in  gazing  upon  and 
listening  to  a  messenger  of  Heaven,  appearing 
in  all  the  unspotted  purity  of  his  celestial 
home,  among  the  coarse,  polluted,  far  inferior 
sons  of  men,  to  deliver  to  them  tidings  that 
make  their  hearts  swim  in  joy,  and  their  ima- 
ginations soar  in  transport  —  such,  so  delighting 
and  so  pure  were  the  emotions  of  my  soul  on 
meeting  the  other  day  with  Miss  Lesley  Baillie, 
your  neighbour  at  Mayfield.  Mr.  B.,  with  his 
two  daughters,  accompanied  with  Mr.  H.  of  G., 
passing  through  Dumfries  a  few  days  ago  on 
their  way  to  England,  did  me  the  honour  of 
calling  on  me ;  on  which  I  took  my  horse  — 
though  God  knows  I  could  ill  spare  the  time 
—  and  accompanied  them  fourteen  or  fifteen 
miles,  and  dined  and  spent  the  day  with  them. 
'Twas  about  nine,  I  think,  that  I  left  them, 
and  riding  home  I  composed  the  following 
ballad,  of  which  you  will  probably  think  you 
have  a  dear  bargain,  as  it  will  cost  you  another 
groat  of  postage.  You  must  know  that  there 
is  an  old  ballad  beginning  with :  — 

'  My  Bonie  Lizzie  Baillie,  I  '11  rowe  thee  in  my  plaiddie,' 

so  I  parodied  it  as  follows,  which  is  literally 
the  first  copy  '  unanointed.  unannealed,'  as 
Hamlet  says."  (R.  B.  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  22d 
August,  1792.) 

I 

O,  SAW  ye  bonie  Lesley, 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  Border  ? 

She  's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther  ! 


To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  for  ever; 


276 


SONGS   FROM  THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS 


For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  never  made  anither  ! 


Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley  — 
Thy  subjects,  we  before  thee  ! 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley  — 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 


The  Deil  he  could  na  skaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee: 

He  'd  look  into  thy  bonie  face, 

And  say :  —  "I  canna  wrang  thee  !  " 


The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee, 
Misfortune  sha'na  steer  thee: 

Thou  'rt  like  themsel'  sae  lovely. 
That  ill  they  '11  ne'er  let  near  thee. 


Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There 's  naue  again  sae  bonie. 


SWEET   FA'S   THE   EVE 


SwEKT  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigiebarn, 
And  blythe  awakes  the  morrow. 

But  a'  the  pride  o'  Spring's  return 
Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 


I  see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees, 
I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing; 

But  what  a  weary  wight  can  please. 
And  Care  his  bosom  is  wringing  ? 

Ill 

Fain,  fain  would  I  my  griefs  impart, 
Yet  dare  na  for  your  anger; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 
If  I  conceal  it  langer. 


If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me, 

If  thou  shalt  love  another. 
When  yon  green  leaves  fade  frae  the  tree, 

Around  my  grave  they  '11  wither. 


YOUNG  JESSIE 

"  I  send  you  a  song  on  a  celebrated  fashion- 
able toast  in  this  country  to  suit  Bonie  Dundee." 
(R.  B.  to  Thomson.) 

The  lady  was  Miss  Jessie  Staig  (daughter  of 
Provost  Staig  of  Dumfries),  on  whose  recovery 
from  a  dangerous  illness  Burns  afterwards 
wrote  the  epigram  To  Dr.  Maxwell  (see  ante, 
p.  190).  She  married  Major  William  Miller, 
son  of  Mr.  Miller  of  Dalswinton,  and  died  at 
twenty-six  in  the  March  of  1801. 


True  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o'  the 
Yarrow, 
And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  of 
the  Ayr; 
But  by  the  sweet  side  o'  the  Nith's  wind- 
ing river 
Are  lovers  as  faithful  and  maidens  as 
fair: 
To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotia  all  over  — 
To  equal   young   Jessie  you  seek  it   in 
vain  ! 
Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 
And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain. 

II 
Fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morn- 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close; 
But  in  the   fair  presence  o'  lovely  young 
Jessie 
Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 
Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  ensnaring; 
Enthron'd  in  her  een  he  delivers  his  law; 
And   still   to   her  charms   she  alone  is  a 
stranger: 
Her  modest  demeanour 's  the  jewel  of  a'. 


ADOWN   WINDING   NITH 

"Another  favourite  air  of  mine  is  The 
Muckin  0'  Geordie's  Byre.  When  sung  slow, 
with  expression,  I  have  wished  that  it  had 
better  poetry  :  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  sup- 
ply as  follows.  .  .  .  Mr.  Clarke  begs  you  to 
give  Miss  Phillis  a  corner  in  your  Book,  as  she 
is  a  particular  Flame  of  his.  She  is  a  Miss 
Phillis  M'Murdo,  sister  to  the  '  Bonie  Jean ' 
which  I  sent  you  some  time  ago.  They  are 
both  pupils  of  his."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  Au- 
gust, 1793.) 


BLYTHE    HAE   I   BEEN   ON    YON    HILL 


277 


Phillis  M'Murdo  married  Norman  Lockhart, 
afterwards  third  baronet  of  Carnwath.  Before 
this,  Burns  had  sent  Thomson  another  song 
on  the  same  lady,  Pkillis  the  Fair,  with  which 
he  did  not  pretend  to  be  satisfied,  and  which 
Thomson  did  not  accept  (see  post,  p.  313). 

CHORUS 

Awa  wi'  your  belles  and  your  beauties  — 
They  never  wi'  her  can  compare  ! 

Whaever  hae  met  wi'  my  Phillis 
Has  met  wi'  the  Queen  o'  the  Fair  ! 


Adown  winding  Nitb  I  did  wander 

To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  spring. 

Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander 
Of  Phillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 


The  Daisy  amus'd  my  fond  fancy, 

So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild: 
"  Thou  emblem,"  said  I,  "  o'  my  Phillis  "  — 

For  she  is  Simplicity's  child. 

Ill 

The  rose-bud 's  the  blush  o'  my  charmer, 
Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when  't  is  prest. 

How  fair  and  how  pure  is  the  lily  ! 
But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast. 


Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  in  the  arbour. 
They  ne'er  wi'  my  Phillis  can  vie : 

Her  breath  is  the  bi-eath  of  the  woodbine, 
Its  dew-drop  o'  diamond  her  eye. 


Her  voice  is  the  song  o'  the  morning. 

That   wakes  thro'   the    green-spreading 
grove, 

When  Phebus  peeps  over  the  mountains 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 


But  Beauty,  how  frail  and  how  fleeting  ! 

The  bloom  of  a  fine  summer's  day  ! 
While  Worth  in  the  mind  o'  my  Phillis 

Will  flourish  without  a  decay. 

CHORUS 

Awa  wi'  your  belles  and  your  beauties  - 
They  never  wi'  her  can  compare  ! 

Whaever  hae  met  wi'  my  Phillis 
Has  met  wi'  the  Queen  o'  the  Fair  ! 


A    LASS   Wr   A   TOCHER 

"  The  other  day  I  strung  up  a  kind  of  rhap- 
sody to  another  Hibernian  melody  that  I  admire 
much."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  February,  1797.) 
The  "  Hibernian  meiody "  was  Balinamona 
Ora. 

CHORUS 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher. 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher. 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 
The  nice  yellow  guineas  for  me  ! 


Awa 


I 
witchcraft 


Beauty' 


wi      your 

alarms, 
The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your 

arms  ! 
O,  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o'  charms  ! 
O,  gie    me  the  lass    wi'   the   weel-stockit 

farms  ! 

II 
Your  Beauty 's   a  flower  in  the  morning 

that  blows. 
And  withers  the  faster  the  faster  it  grows  ; 
But  the  rapturous  charm  o'  the  bonie  green 

knowes. 
Ilk  spring  they  're  new  deckit   wi'  bonie 

white  yowes  ! 


And  e'en  when  this  Beauty  your  bosom  has 

blest, 
The  brightest  o'  Beauty  may  cloy  when 

possess'd; 
But  the  sweet,  yellow  darlings  wi'  Geordie 

impress'd, 
The  langer  ye  hae  them,  the  mair  they  're 

carest ! 

CHORUS 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher. 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 
The  nice  yellow  guineas  for  me  ! 


BLYTHE    HAE    I    BEEN    ON   YON 
HILL 

Suggested  by  Eraser  the  oboist's  interpre- 
tation of  The  Quaker^ s  Wife:  "Mr.  Eraser 
plays  it  slow,   and  with   an   expression  that 


278 


SONGS   FROM  THOMSON'S    "SCOTTISH   AIRS" 


quite  charms  me.  I  got  such  an  enthusiast  in 
it  that  1  made  a  song  for  it,  which  I  here  sub- 
join, and  enclose  Fraser's  set  of  the  tune.  If 
they  liit  your  fancy  they  are  at  your  service  ; 
if  not,  return  me  the  tune,  and  I  will  put  it  in 
Joliuson's  Museum.  I  think  the  song  is  not  in 
my  worst  manner."     (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  June, 

ni«.) 

Later,  in  his  remarks  on  Thomson's  List, 
he  inserted  Blythe  Hae  I  Been  on  Yon  Hill: 
''  which,*'  he  wrote,  "  is  one  of  the  finest  songs 
e^  er  I  made  in  my  life  ;  and  is  composed  on  a 
young  lady,  positively  the  most  beautiful  lovely 
woman  in  the  world.  As  I  purpose  giving  you 
the  name  and  designation  of  all  my  heroines 
to  appear  in  some  future  edition  of  your  work, 
perhaps  half  a  century  hence,  you  must  cer- 
tainly include  the  boniest  lass  in  the  world  in 
your  collection."  For  the  "  boniest  lass  in  the 
world,"  see  ante,  p.  275,  Prefatory  Note  to 
Saw  Ye  Bonie  Lesley. 


Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill 

As  the  lambs  before  me, 
Careles.s  ilka  thought,  and  free 

As  the  breeze  flew  o'er  me. 
Now  nae  langer  sport  and  play, 

Mirth  or  sang  can  please  me: 
Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 

Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 


Heavy,  heavy  is  the  task, 

Hopeless  love  declaring  ! 
Trembling,  I  dow  nocht  but  glow'r, 

Sighing,  dumb  despairing  ! 
If  she  winna  ease  the  thraws 

In  my  bosom  swelling. 
Underneath  the  grass-green  sod 

Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 


BY   ALLAN    STREAM 

"I  walked  out  yesterday  evening  with  a 
volume  of  the  Museum  in  my  hand,  when, 
turning  up  Allan  Water  ('  What  number  shall 
my  Muse  repeat,'  etc.),  it  appeared  to  me  rather 
unworthy  of  so  fine  an  air ;  and  recollecting  it 
is  on  your  list,  I  sat  and  raved  under  the  shade 
of  an  old  thorn,  till  I  wrote  one  to  suit  the 
measure.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  think  it  is 
not  in  my  worst  style."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson, 
August,  1793.) 


By  Allan  stream  I  chanc'd  to  rove. 

While  Phebus  sank  beyond  Benledi; 
The  winds  were  whispering  thro'  the  grove, 

The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready; 
I  llsten'd  to  a  lover's  sang. 

An'  thought  on  youthf  u'  pleasures  monie, 
And  ay  the  wild- wood  echoes  rang:  — 

"  O,  my  love  Annie 's  very  bonie  ! 


"  O,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie  ! 
Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour. 

The  place  and  time  I  met  my  dearie  ! 
Her  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast. 

She,   sinking,   said  :  —  '  I  'm   thine   for 
ever  ! ' 
While  monie  a  kiss  the  seal  imprest  — 

The  sacred  vow  we  ne'er  should  sever." 

Ill 
The  haunt  o'  Spring  's  the  primrose-brae. 

The  Summer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow. 
How  cheery  thro'  her  short'ning  day 

Is  Autumn  in  her  weeds  o'  yellow  ! 
But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart. 

Or   chain  the   soul   in  speechless   plea- 
sure, 
Or  thro'  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart, 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom's  treasure  ? 


CANST   THOU    LEAVE   ME 

Sent  to  Thomson,  20th  November,  1794. 
' '  Well,  I  think  this,  to  be  done  in  two  or 
three  turns  across  my  room,  and  with  two  or 
three  pinches  of  Irish  blackguard,  is  not  far 
amiss.  You  see  I  am  determined  to  have  my 
quantumof  applause  from  somebody."  (R.  B.) 

CHORUS 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katie  ! 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katie  ! 
Well  thou  know'st  my  aching  heart, 

And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 


Is  this  thy  plighted,  foud  regard  : 
Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katie  ? 

Is  this  thy  faithful  swain's  reward  : 
An  aching  broken  heart,  my  Katie  ? 


FAREWELL,  THOU    STREAM 


279 


Farewell  !     And  ne'er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katie  ! 

Thou  may'st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear, 
But  not  a  love  like  mine,  my  Katie. 


CHORUS 


Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katie  ! 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katie, 
Well  thou  know'st  my  aching  heart. 

And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 


COME,  LET   ME   TAKE   THEE 

"  That  tune,  Cauld  Kail,  is  such  a  favourite 
of  yours  that  I  once  roved  out  yester  evening  for 
a  g-loaniin  shot  at  the  Muses  ;  when  the  Muse 
that  presides  o'er  the  shores  of  Nith,  or  rather 
my  old  inspiring  dearest  nymph,  Coila,  whis- 
pered me  the  following.  I  have  two  reasons  for 
thinking  that  it  was  my  early,  sweet  Inspirer 
that  was  by  my  elbow, '  smooth-gliding  without 
step,'  and  pouring  the  song  on  my  glowing 
fancy.  In  the  first  place,  since  I  left  Coila's 
native  haunts,  not  a  fragment  of  a  Poet  has 
arisen  to  cheer  her  solitary  musings  by  catch- 
ing inspu'ation  from  her,  so  I  more  than  sus- 
pect she  has  followed  me  hither,  or  at  least 
made  me  an  occasional  visit ;  secondly,  the 
last  stanza  of  this  song  I  sent  you  is  the  very 
words  that  Coila  taught  me  many  years  ago, 
and  which  I  set  to  an  old  Scots  reel,  in  John- 
son's Museum."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  August, 
1793.)  The  song  referred  to  is  And  I '//  Kiss 
Thee  Yet  {ante,  p.  213). 


Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast. 

And  pledge  we  ne'er  shall  sunder, 
And  I  shall  spurn  as  vilest  dust 

The  world's  wealth  and  grandeur  ! 
And  do  I  hear  my  Jeanie  own 

That  equal  transports  move  her  ? 
I  ask  for  dearest  life  alone, 

That  I  may  live  to  love  her. 


Thus  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  her  charms, 
I  clasp  my  countless  treasure, 

I  '11  seek  nae  mair  o'  Heav'n  to  share 
Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure  ! 


And  by  thy  een  sae  bonie  blue 
I  swear  I  'm  thine  for  ever. 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 
And  break  it  shall  I  never  ! 


CONTENTED   WI'   LITTLE 


Contented  wi'  little  and  cantie  wi'  mair. 
Whene'er  I  forgather  wi'  Sorrow  and  Care, 
I  gie  them  a  skelp,  as  they  're  creepin  alang, 
Wi'  a  cog  o'  guid  swats  and  an  auld  Scot- 
tish sang. 


I  whyles  claw  the  elbow  o'  troublesome 
Thought; 

But  Man  is  a  soger,  and  Life  is  a  faught. 

My  mirth  and  guid  humour  are  coin  in  my 
pouch, 

And  my  Freedom 's  my  lairdship  nae  mon- 
arch daur  touch. 

Ill 

A  towmond  o'  trouble,  should  that  be  my 

fa', 
A  night  o'  guid  fellowship  sowthers  it  a'  : 
When  at  the  blythe  end  o'  our  journey  at 

last, 
Wha  the  Deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road  he 

has  past  ? 

IV 

Blind  Chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte 
on  her  way, 

Be  't  to  me,  be  't  f  rae  me,  e'en  let  the  jade 
gae ! 

Come  Ease  or  come  Travail,  come  Pleasure 
or  Pain, 

My  warst  word  is  :  —  "  Welcome,  and  wel- 
come affaiu  !  " 


FAREWELL,    THOU    STREAM 

The  second  set  of  a  song  which  originally 
began : — 

"  The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor 
And  left  Maria's  dwelling." 

The  heroine  was  Maria  Riddell,  to  whom 
Burns  sent  a  copy.  To  this  he  added  this  note 
(unpublished  ^) :   "  On  reading  over  the  song,  I 

>  That  is,  before  the  Centenary  Edition. 


28o 


SONGS   FROM  THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH  AIRS" 


Bee  it  is  but  a  cold,  inanimated  composition. 
It  will  be  absolutely  necessary  for  me  to  get  in 
love,  else  I  shall  never  be  able  to  make  a  line 
worth  reading-  on  the  subject."  In  Jaimary, 
171*4,  occurred  the  estrangement  from  Mrs. 
Kiddell  (see  ante,  pp.  178,  179,  Prefatory  Note 
to  Impromptu  on  Mrs.  HiddeWs  Birthday)  ;  and 
in  July,  1794,  Burns  informed  Thomson  that  he 
meant  to  set  llie  verses  he  had  sent  him  for 
The  Last  Time  I  Came  O'er  the  Moor  to  Nancy  's 
to  the  Greenwood  Gane,  and  that  he  had ''  made 
an  alteration  in  the  beginning." 


Farewell,  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 
Arouud  Eliza's  dwelling  ! 

0  Mem'ry,  spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling: 

Coudemn'd  to  drag  a  hopeless  chain 

And  yet  in  secret  languish, 
To  feel  a  fire  in  every  vein 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish  ! 

11 
Love's  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknown, 

I  fain  my  griefs  would  cover: 
The  bursting  sigh,  th'  unweetiug  groan 

Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

1  know  thou  doom'st  me  to  despair. 
Nor  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me; 

But,  O  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer  — 
For  pity's  sake  forgive  me  ! 

Ill 
The  music  of  thy  voice  I  heard. 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslav'd  me  ! 
I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear'd, 

Till  fears  no  more  had  sav'd  me  ! 
Th'  unwary  sailor  thus,  aghast 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing, 
'Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 

In  overwhelming  ruin. 


HAD    I    A    CAVE 

"  That  crinkum-crankum  tune,  Robin  Adair, 
has  run  so  in  my  head,  and  I  succeeded  so  ill 
in  my  last  attempt  [Phillis  the  Fair,  see 
post,  p.  313],  that  I  ventured  in  my  morning's 
walk  one  essay  more.  You,  my  dear  Sir,  will 
remember  an  unfortunate  part  of  our  worthy 
friend  Cunningham's  story,  which  happened 
about  three  years  ago.  That  struck  my  fancy, 
and  I  endeavoured  to  do  the  idea  poetic  justice, 
as  follows."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  August, 
1793.) 


See  further.  Prefatory  Notes  to  Anna  {ante, 
p.  95) ;  2o  Alex.  Cunningham  (ante,  p.  140) ; 
and  Hke  's  Fair  and  Fause  (ante,  p.  249). 

I 
Had  I  a  cave 

On  some  wild  distant  shore, 
Where  the  winds  howl 

To  the  wave's  dashing  roar. 
There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 
There  seek  my  lost  repose. 
Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close, 
Ne'er  to  wake  more  ! 


Falsest  of  womankind, 
Can'st  thou  declare 
All  thy  fond,  plighted  vows 
Fleeting  as  air  ? 

To  thy  new  lover  hie. 
Laugh  o'er  thy  perjury, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  try 
What  peace  is  there  ! 


HERE  'S   A   HEALTH 

"I  once  mentioned  to  you  an  air  which  I 
have  long  admired.  Here 's  Health  to  Them 
That 's  Awa,  Hinney ;  but  I  forget  if  you  took 
notice  of  it.  I  have  just  been  trying  to  suit  it 
with  verses ;  and  I  beg  leave  to  recommend 
the  air  to  your  attention  once  more."  (R.  B. 
to  Thomson,  May,  1796.)  About  a  fortnight 
before  his  death  he  sent  a  copy  to  Alexander 
C'Unuingham :  "  Did  Thomson  show  you  the 
following  song,  the  last  I  made,  or  probably 
will  make  for  some  time  ?  " 

The  heroine,  Jessie  Lewars,  sister  of  John 
Lewars,  a  fellow-exciseman,  was  of  great  ser- 
vice to  the  Burns  household  during  the  last 
illness.  She  is  also  commemorated  in  certain 
complimentary  verses  (aiite,  pp.  148,  192),  and 
in  that  very  beavitiful  song,  O,  Wert  Thou  in 
the  Cauld  Blast  (post,  p.  315).  On  3d  June, 
1799,  she  married  Mr.  James  Thomson,  Writer 
in  Dumfries,  and  she  died  26th  May,  1855. 

CHORUS 

Here  's  a  health  to  ane  I  loe  dear  ! 
Here  's  a  health  to  ane  I  loe  dear  ! 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lov- 
ers meet. 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear, 

Jessy  — 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear  ! 


IT  WAS   THE  CHARMING   MONTH 


281 


Altho'  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 
Altho'  even  hope  is  denied, 

'T  is  sweeter  for  thee  despairing 
Than  ought  in  the  world  beside, 

Jessy  — 
Than  ought  in  the  world  beside  ! 


I  mourn  thro'  the  gay,  gaudy  day. 
As  hopeless  I  muse  on  thy  charms; 

But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slumber  ! 
For  then  I  am  lockt  in  thine  arms, 

Jessy  — 
For  then  I  am  lockt  in  thine  arms  ! 

CHORUS 

Here  's  a  health  to  ane  I  loe  dear  ! 
Here  's  a  health  to  ane  I  loe  dear  ! 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile    when   fond 
lovers  meet, 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear, 

Jessy  — 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear ! 


HOW  CRUEL  ARE  THE  PARENTS 

"  A  3ong  altered  from  an  old  English  one  " 
(R.  B.),  [which  begins] : 

"  How  cruel  is  that  parent's  care, 
Who  riches  only  prizes." 


How  cruel  are  the  parents 

Who  riches  only  prize, 
And  to  the  wealthy  booby 

Poor  Woman  sacrifice  ! 
Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter 

Has  but  a  choice  of  strife: 
To  shun  a  tyrant  father's  hate 

Become  a  wretched  wife  ! 


The  ravening  hawk  pursuing, 

The  trembling  dove  thus  flies: 
To  shun  impending  ruin 

Awhile  her  pinion  tries, 
Till,  of  escape  despairing. 

No  shelter  or  retreat, 
She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer. 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet. 


HUSBAND,   HUSBAND,    CEASE 
YOUR   STRIFE 


"  Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 
Nor  longer  idly  rave,  sir  ! 
Tho'  I  am  your  wedded  wife, 
Yet  I  am  not  your  slave,  sir." 
"  One  of  two  must  still  obey, 
Nancy,  Nancy  ! 
Is  it  Man  or  Woman,  say, 
My  spouse  Nancy  ?  " 


"  If  't  is  still  the  lordly  word. 
Service  and  obedience, 
I  '11  desert  my  sov'reign  lord, 
And  so  goodbye,  allegiance  !  " 
"  Sad  will  I  be  so  bereft, 
Nancy,  Nancy  ! 
Yet  I  '11  try  to  make  a  shift, 
My  spouse  Nancy  !  " 

III 

"  My  poor  heart,  then  break  it  must, 
My  last  hour  I  am  near  it: 
When  you  lay  me  in  the  dust, 
Think,  how  will  you  bear  it  ?  " 
"  I  will  hope  and  trust  in  Heaven, 
Nancy,  Nancy  ! 
Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given, 
My  spouse  Nancy." 

IV 

"  Well,  sir,  from  the  silent  dead, 
Still  I  '11  try  to  daunt  you : 
Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 
Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you  ! " 
"  I  '11  wed  another  like  my  dear, 
Nancy,  Nancy  ! 
Then  all  Hell  will  fly  for  fear, 
My  spouse  Nancy  ! " 


IT  WAS  THE  CHARMING  MONTH 

Meant  as  English  words  to  Dainty  Davie, 
and  abridged  from  a  song  in  The  Tea-Table 
Miscellany.  "  You  may  think  meanly  of  this, 
but  take  a  look  at  the  bombast  original  and 
you  will  be  surprised  that  I  have  made  so 
much  of  it."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  November, 
179i.) 


282 


SONGS   FROM   THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS 


All  the  same,  Barns  rather  selected  from 
than  renewed  and  re-inspired  the  "  bombast 
original."  Practically  nothing  is  his  but  the 
repeats  and  the  chorus ;  and  even  these  have 
their  germs  in  the  Miscellany.  The  rest  of  his 
set  is  '■  lifted  "  almost  word  for  word,  and  sim- 
ply edited  and  rearranged. 

CHORUS 

Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 

Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn, 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe  ! 


It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  flow'rs  were  fresh  and  gay, 
One  morning,  by  the  break  of  day, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe, 
From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose. 
Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose, 
And  o'er  the  flow'ry  mead  she  goes  — 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe  ! 


The  feather'd  people  you  might  see 
Perch'd  all  around  on  every  tree  ! 
With  notes  of  sweetest  melody 

They  hail  the  charming  Chloe, 
Till,  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies. 
The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 
Outrival'd  by  the  radiant  eyes 

Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

CHORUS 

Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 

Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn, 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe  ! 


LAST   MAY   A   BRAW  WOOER 


Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the 
lang  glen. 
And  sair  wi'  his  love  he  did  deave  me. 
I    said   there  was  naething   I   hated   like 
men: 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm  to  believe  me,  be- 
lieve me  — 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm  to  believe  me  I 


He  spak  o'  the  darts  in  my  bonie  black  een, 
And  vow'd  for  my  love  he  was  diein. 

I  said,  he  might  die  when  he  liket  for  Jean: 
The  Lord  f orgie  me  for  liein,  for  liein  — 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  liein  ! 

Ill 

A  weel-stocket  mailen ,  himsel  for  the  laird. 
And  marriage  a£E-hand  were  his  proffers: 

I  never  loot  on  that  I  kenn'd  it,  or  car'd. 
But  thought  I  might  hae   waur  offers, 

waur  offers  — 
But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 


But  what  wad  ye  think?     In  a  fortnight 

or  less 

(The  Ded  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her  !) 

He  up  the  Gate-Slack  to  my  black  cousin, 

Bess  ! 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  !  I  could  bear  her, 

could  bear  her  — 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  !  I  could  bear  her. 


But  a'  the  niest  week,  as  I  petted  wi'  care, 

I  gaed  to  the  tryste  o'  Dalgarnock, 
And   wha   but   my   fine    fickle    lover   was 
there  ? 
I  glowr'd  as  I  'd  seen  a  warlock,  a  war- 
lock — 
I  glowr'd  as  I  'd  seen  a  warlock. 


But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him  a 
blink. 
Lest  neebours  might  say  I  was  saucy. 
My   wooer   he   caper'd   as    he  'd   been    in 
drink. 
And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie,  dear 

lassie  — 
And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie  ! 

VII 

I   spier'd  for  my  cousin   fu'   couthy   and 
sweet: 
Gin  she  had  recover'd  her  hearin  ? 
And   how   her   new   shoon    fit    her    auld, 
shachl'd  feet  ? 
But  heavens  !  how  he  fell  a  swearin,  a 

swearin  — 
But  heavens  !  how  he  fell  a  swearin  ! 


NOW    ROSY    MAY 


283 


He  begged  for  glide  sake,  I  wad  be  his  wife, 
Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi'  sorrow; 

So  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  iu  life, 
I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to- 
morrow — 
I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow  ! 


MY   NAN  IE  'S    AWA 

"There  is  one  passage  in  your  charming- 
letter.  Thomson  nor  Shenstone  never  exceeded 
it,  nor  often  came  up  to  it.  I  shall  certainly 
steal  it,  and  set  it  in  some  future  poetic  produc- 
tion and  get  immortal  fame  by  it.  'T  is  where 
you  bid  the  scenes  of  Nature  remind  me  of 
Clarinda."  (Sylvander  to  Clarinda  [see  Prefa- 
tory Note,  ante,  p.  138],  7th  February,  1788.) 
It  may  be,  as  some  suppose,  that  this  smooth 
and  pleasant  ditty  represents  the  theft. 


Now  in  her  green  mantle  blythe  Nature 

arrays. 
And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o'er  the 

braes. 
While  birds  warble  welcomes  in  ilka  green 

shaw, 
But  to  me  it 's  delightless  —  my  Nanie  's 

awa. 

II 

The  snawdrap  and  primrose  our  woodlands 

adorn. 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o'  the  morn. 
They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly  they 

blaw: 
They  mind   me    o'  Nanie  —  and   Nanie  's 

awa  ! 

Ill 

Thou  lav'rock,  that  springs  frae  the  dews 

of  the  lawn 
The  shepherd  to  warn  o'  the  grey-breaking 

dawn, 
And   thou    mellow   mavis,   that   hails   the 

night-fa, 
Give  over  for  pity  —  my  Nanie  's  awa. 

IV 

Come  Autumn,  sae  pensive  in  yellow  and 
grey, 

And  soothe  me  wi'  tidings  o'  Nature's  de- 
cay I 


The  dark,  dreary  Winter  and  wild-driving 

snaw 
Alane  can  delight  me  —  now  Nanie  's  awa. 


NOW   ROSY    MAY 

A  rifaccimento  of  The  Gard'ner  wV  his  Paidle 
(ante,  p.  218),  adapted  to  the  tune  of  Dainty 
Davie.  The  original  Dainty  Davie,  on  which 
the  chorus  is  modelled,  is  preserved  in  the 
Herd  MS.  and  The  Merry  Muses.  See  also, 
post,  p.  335,  Notes  to  The  Jolly  Beggars.  "  The 
words  '  Dainty  Davie  '  glide  so  sweetly  in  the 
air,  that  to  a  Scots  ear,  any  song  to  it,  -without 
Davie  being  the  hero,  would  have  a  lame  ef- 
fect.*'    (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  August,  1793.) 


CHORUS 

Meet  me  on  the  Warlock  Knowe, 
Dainty  Da-vie,  Dainty  Da\'ie  ! 

There  I  '11  spend  the  day  wi'  you, 
My  ain  dear  Dainty  Davie. 


Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers 
To  deck  her  gay,  green-spreading  bowers; 
And  now  comes  in  the  happy  hours 
To  wander  wi'  my  Davie. 


The  crystal  waters  round  us  fa', 
The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a', 
The  scented  breezes  round  us  blaw, 
A  wandering  wi'  my  Davie. 


When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare. 
Then  thro'  the  dews  I  will  repair 
To  meet  my  faithfu'  Davie. 


When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 
The  curtain  draws  o'  Nature's  rest, 
I  flee  to  his  arms  I  loe  the  best: 
And  that 's  my  ain  dear  Davie  ! 

CHORUS 

Meet  me  on  the  Warlock  Knowe, 
Dainty  Davie,  Dainty  Davie  ! 

There  I  '11  spend  the  day  wi'  you, 
My  ain  dear  Dainty  Davie. 


284 


SONGS   FROM   THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH  AIRS 


NOW   SPRING   HAS    CLAD 


Now  spring  lias  clad  the  grove  in  green, 

And  strcw'd  the  lea  wi'  flowers; 
The  fnrrow'd,  waving  corn  is  seen 

Rejoice  in  fostering  showers; 
Wliile  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 

Their  sorrows  to  forego, 
O,  why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 

The  weary  steps  o'  woe  ! 


The  trout  within  yon  witnpling  burn 

Glides  swift,  a  silver  dart, 
And,  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn, 

Defies  the  angler's  art: 
My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream, 

That  wanton  trout  was  I, 
But  Love  wi'  unrelenting  beam 

Has  scorch'd  my  fountains  dry. 


The  little  floweret's  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliff  that  grows. 
Which,  save  the  linnet's  flight,  I  wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows, 
Was  mine,  till  Love  has  o'er  me  past, 

And  blighted  a'  my  bloom; 
And  now  beneath  the  withering  blast 

My  youth  and  joy  consume. 


The  waken'd  lav'rock  warbling  springs. 

And  climbs  the  early  sky. 
Winnowing  blythe  his  dewy  wings 

In  Morning's  rosy  eye: 
As  little  reck't  I  Sorrow's  power, 

Until  the  flowery  snare 
O'  witching  Love  in  luckless  hour 

Made  me  the  thrall  o'  care  ! 


O,  had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows 

Or  Afric's  burning  zone, 
Wi'  man  and  Nature  leagu'd  my  foes, 

So  Peggy  ne'er  I  'd  known  ! 
The    wretch,    whose    doom   is   "  hope 
mair," 

What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell, 
Within  whose  bosom,  save  Despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell ! 


O,  THIS    IS    NO   MY   AIN    LASSIE 

"  This  is  No  My  Ain  House  puzzles  me  a 
good  deal ;  in  fact,  I  think  to  change  the  old 
rhythm  of  the  first,  or  chorus  part  of  the  tune, 
will  have  a  good  effect.  I  would  have  it  some- 
thing like  the  gallop  of  the  following."  (R.  B. 
to  Thomson,  June,  1795.)  In  the  first  draft  of 
the  Chorus  he  wrote  "  Body  "  for  "  Lassie  ;  " 
but  in  August  he  directed  Thomson  to  substi- 
tute "Lassie." 

CHORUS 

O,  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie. 

Fair  tho'  the  lassie  be: 
Weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie  — 

Kind  love  is  in  her  e'e. 


I  SEE  a  form,  I  see  a  face, 
Ye  weel  may  wi'  the  fairest  place: 
It  wants  to  me  the  witching  grace. 
The  kind  love  that 's  in  her  e'e. 


She  's  bonie,  blooming,  straight,  and  tall, 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall; 
And  ay  it  charms  my  very  saul, 
The  kind  love  that's  in  the  e'e. 


A  thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 
To  steal  a  blink  by  a'  unseen  ! 
But  gleg  as  light  are  lover's  een, 
When  kind  love  is  in  the  e'e. 


It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks, 
It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks; 
But  well  the  watching  lover  marks 
The  kind  love  that 's  in  her  e'e. 

CHORUS 

O,  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie. 
Fair  tho'  the  lassie  be: 

Weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie  — 
Kind  love  is  in  her  e'e. 


O,  WAT  YE  WHA  THAT  LO'ES  ME 

CHORUS 

O,  that 's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart, 
My  lassie  ever  dearer  1 


SCOTS,   WHA   HAE 


285 


O,  that 's  the  queen  o'  womankind, 
And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her  ! 


O,  WAT  ye  wha  that  lo'es  me, 
And  has  my  heart  a  keeping  ? 

O,  sweet  is  she  that  lo'es  me 
As  dews  o'  summer  weeping, 
In  tears  the  rosebuds  steeping  ! 


If  thou  shalt  meet  a  lassie 

In  grace  and  beauty  charming, 

That  e'en  thy  chosen  lassie, 

ErewhUe  thy  breast  sae  warming, 
Had  ne'er  sic  powers  alarming:  — 

III 

If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking 
(And  thy  attention  's  plighted). 

That  ilka  body  talking 

But  her  by  thee  is  slighted. 
And  thou  art  all-delighted:  — 


If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one, 
When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted, 

If  every  other  fair  one 

But  her  thou  hast  deserted, 
And  thou  art  broken-hearted:  — 

CHORUS 
O,  that 's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart. 

My  lassie  ever  dearer  ! 
O,  that 's  the  queen  o'  womankind, 

And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her  ! 


SCOTS,   WHA   HAE 

First  published  in  The,  Morning  Chronicle, 
May,  1794.  Replying  to  Perry's  offer  of  an 
engagement  on  that  print,  Burns  wrote  :  "In 
the  meantime  they  are  most  welcome  to  my 
ode  ;  only  let  them  insert  it  as  a  thing  they 
have  met  with  by  accident  and  unknown  to  me." 
Accordingly,  the  ode  was  thus  ingenuously 
prefaced  :  "  If  the  following  warm  and  animat- 
ing ode  was  not  written  near  the  times  to  which 
it  applies,  it  is  one  of  the  most  faithful  imita- 
tions of  the  simple  and  beautiful  style  of  the 
Scottish  bards  we  ever  read,  and  we  know  but 
of  one  living  Poet  to  whom  to  ascribe  it :  "  a 
piece  of  criticism  which,  if  you  reflect  that  in 
grammar,  style,  cast,  sentiment,  diction,  and 
turn  of  phrase,  the  ode,  though  here  and  there 


its  spelling  deviates  into  Scots,  is  pure  Eigh- 
teenth Century  English,  says  little  for  the 
soundness  of  Perry's  judgment,  however  it 
may  approve  the  kindness  of  his  heart. 

Varying  accounts  are  given  of  the  time  and 
circumstances  of  its  origin.  John  Syme  con- 
nects it  with  a  tour  with  Burns  in  Galloway  in 
July,  1793  :  "  I  told  you  that  in  the  midst  of 
the  storm  on  the  wUds  of  Kenmure,  Burns  was 
rapt  in  meditation.  What  do  you  think  he 
was  about  ?  He  was  charging  the  English 
army  along  with  Bruce  at  Bannoekbum.  He 
was  engaged  in  the  same  manner  on  our  ride 
from  St.  Mary's  Isle,  and  I  did  not  disturb 
him.  Next  day  he  produced  me  the  following 
address  of  Bruce  to  his  troops,  and  gave  me  a 
copy  for  Dalzell."  Burns  tells  a  different  tale. 
After  some  remarks  to  Thomson  (August  or 
September,  1793),  on  the  old  air  Hey  Tutti 
Taiti,  and  on  the  tradition  that  "  it  was  Robert 
Bruce 's  march  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn," 
he  introduces  Scots  Wha  Hae  :  "  This  thought, 
in  my  yesternight's  evening  walk,  roused  me 
to  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm  on  the  theme  of  lib- 
erty and  independence,  which  I  threw  into  a 
kind  of  Scots  ode,  fitted  to  the  air,  that  one 
might  suppose  to  be  the  gallant  royal  Scot's 
address  to  his  heroic  followers  on  that  eventful 
morning."  The  two  statements  are  irreconcil- 
able ;  and  we  must  conclude  either  that  Syme 
misdated  the  tour,  and  that  the  "  yesternight " 
of  Bums  was  the  night  of  his  return  to  Dum- 
fries, or  that  Burns  did  not  give  Syme  a  copy 
until  some  time  after  his  return,  and  that,  like 
some  other  circumstances  he  was  pleased  to 
father,  his  "  yester-night's  evening  walk  "  need 
not  be  literally  interpreted. 

Thomson  reprobated  the  "  idea  of  giving  it  a 
tune  so  totally  devoid  of  interest  or  grandeur  " 
as  Hey  Tuttie  Taitie,  and  suggested  certain 
additions  in  the  fourth  line  of  each  stanza  to 
fit  it  to  that  of  Lewie  Gordon.  To  accept  these 
expletives  was  to  ruin  the  effect ;  but  as  in  the 
case  of  Ye  Flowery  Banks  0'  Bonie  Uoon,  ac- 
cepted they  were.  Some  other  suggestions 
Burns  declined:  "I  have  scrutinized  it  over 
and  over ;  and  to  the  world,  some  way  or  other, 
it  shall  go  as  it  is."  At  the  same  time,  he 
seems  to  have  been  scarce  reconciled  to  the 
change  to  Lewie  Gordon,  for  says  he  :  "  It  will 
not  in  the  least  hurt  me,  tho'  you  leave  the 
song  out  altogether,  and  adhere  to  your  first 
idea  of  adopting  Logan's  verses.''  But  hav- 
ing agreed  to  it,  he  adopted  the  changes  in 
all  such  copies  as  he  sent  out  in  MS.  After 
the  publication  of  the  Thomson  Correspondence, 
general  opinion  pronounced  in  favour  of  Hey 
Tuttie  Taitie;  and  Thomson  published  the  ode 
as  written,  and  set  it  to  the  air  for  which  it 
was  made,  and  to  which  (as  sung  by  Braham 
and  others)  it  owes  no  little  of  its  fortune. 


286 


SONGS   FROM   THOMSON'S    "SCOTTISH   AIRS" 


In  sending'  a  copy  (now  in  Harvard  Univer- 
sity Library)  to  Lord  Buchan,  Bums  was 
moved  to  descant  on  the  battle  itself  :  '"  Inde- 
pendently of  my  enthusiasm  as  a  Scotsman,  I 
have  rarely  met  with  anything  in  history  which 
interests  my  feelings  as  a  man  equal  with  the 
story  of  Bannockburn.  On  the  one  hand  a 
cruel,  but  able  usurper,  leading  on  the  finest 
army  in  Europe,  to  extinguish  the  last  spark 
of  freedom  among  a  greatly-daring  and  greatly- 
injured  people  ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  desper- 
ate relics  of  a  gallant  nation,  devoting  them- 
selves to  rescue  their  bleeding  country  or 
perish  with  her.  Liberty  !  thou  art  a  prize 
truly  and  indeed  invaluable,  for  never  canst 
thou  be  too  dearly  bought."  Some  have  con- 
cluded therefrom  that  the  writer  had  mixed 
his  usurpers,  and  thought  that  the  Edward 
beaten  at  Bannockburn  was  the  Malleus  Scoto- 
rum,  the  victor  of  Falkirk  and  the  hangman 
of  Sir  William  Wallace.  But  if  he  did,  he 
was  afterwards  better  informed  ;  for  to  a  copy 
(now  in  the  Corporation  CouncU  Chamber, 
Edinburgh)  presented  to  Dr.  Hughes  of  Here- 
ford (8th  August,  1795)  he  appended  the  fol- 
lowing note  :  "  This  battle  was  the  decisive 
blow  which  first  put  Robert  the  First,  com- 
monly called  Robert  de  Bruce,  in  quiet  pos- 
session of  the  Scottish  throne.  It  was  fought 
against  Edward  the  Second,  son  to  that  Ed- 
ward who  shed  so  much  blood  in  Scotland  in 
consequence  of  the  dispute  between  Bruce  and 
Baliol."  It  is  also  to  the  purpose  to  note  that, 
on  the  poet's  own  showing  (letter  to  Thomson), 
this  very  famous  lyric  was  inspired,  not  only 
by  the  thought  of  Bannockburn,  but  also  "  by 
the  glowing  ideas  of  some  other  struggles  of 
the  same  nature  not  quite  so  ancient :  "  that,  in 
other  words,  it  is  partly  an  effect  of  the  French 
Revolution. 

The  stanza,  binding-rhyme  and  all,  is  that 
of  Helen  of  Kirkcontiel,  a  ballad  which  Bums 
thought  "  silly  to  contemptibility  :  — 

"  I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 

O,  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 

On  fair  Kirkconnel  Lea  !  " 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed 
Or  to  victorie  ! 


Now  's  the  day,  and  now  's  the  hour: 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour, 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power 
Chains  and  slaverie  ! 


Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ?  — 

Let  him  turn,  and  flee  ! 


Wha  for  Scotland's  King  and  Law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa', 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 


By  Oppression's  woes  and  pains, 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains, 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins 

But  they  shall  be  free  ! 


Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty  's  in  every  blow  ! 

Let  us  do,  or  die  ! 


THEIR   GROVES    O'   SWEET 
MYRTLE 

"  The  Irish  air.  Humours  of  Glen,  is  a  great 
favourite  of  mine,  and  as,  except  the  silly 
verses  in  The  Poor  Soldier,  there  are  not  any 
decent  words  for  it,  I  have  written  for  it  as 
follows."     (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  April,  1795.) 


Theik  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign 
lands  reckon, 
Where    bright-beaming    summers    exalt 
the  perfume  ! 
Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green 
breckan, 
Wi'  the  burn  stealing   under  the  lang, 
yellow  broom ; 
Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom 
bowers. 
Where    the    blue-bell   and   gowan    lurk 
lowly,  unseen; 
For  there,  lightly  tripping  among  the  wild 
flowers, 
A-list'ning  the  linnet,  aft   wanders   my 
Jean. 


HIGHLAND    MARY 


287 


II 

Tho'  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay,  sunny 
vallies, 
And  cauld  Caledonia's  blast  on  the  wave, 
Their  sweet-scented   woodlands  that  skirt 
the  proud  palace, 
What  are    they  ?  —  The   haunt   of   the 
tyrant  and  slave  ! 
The  slave's  spicy  forests  and  gold-bubbling 
fountains 
The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi'  disdain: 
He   wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his 
mountains, 
Save  Love's  willing  fetters  —  the  chains 
o'  his  Jean. 


THINE    AM    I 

Intended  as  English  words  to  The  Quaker'' s 
Wife.  It  is  possible  that  the  verses  had  done 
duty  with  Clarinda :  "  I  have  altered  the  first 
stanza,  which  I  would  have  to  stand  thus : 

"  '  Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  Fair, 
Well  thou  may'st  discover  ! 
Every  pulse  aloug  my  veins 
Tells  the  ardent  Lover.'  " 

(R.  B.  to  Thomson,  19th  October,  1794.)  But 
on  2d  August,  1795,  being  long,  long  off  with 
Clarinda  and  very  much  on  with  Jean  Loriraer, 
he  wants  his  first  line  changed  to  "  Thine  am 
I,  my  Chi  oris  fair :  "  "If  you  neglect  the  al- 
teration, I  call  on  all  the  Nine  conjunctly  and 
severally  to  anathematise  you."  A  parallel 
case  is  that  of  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  thriftily 
turning  his  Fotheringay  rhymes  to  account 
with  Miss  Amory. 


Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  Fair, 

Thine  my  lovely  Nancy  ! 
Ev'ry  pulse  along  my  veins, 

Ev'ry  roving  fancy  ! 
To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart 

There  to  throb  and  languish. 
Tho'  despair  had  wrung  its  core, 

That  would  heal  its  anguish. 


Take  away  those  rosy  lips 
Rich  with  balmy  treasure  ! 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love. 
Lest  I  die  with  pleasure  ! 


What  is  life  when  wanting  love  ? 

Night  without  a  morning  ! 
Love  the  cloudless  summer's  sun, 

Nattire  gay  adorning. 


THOU    HAST   LEFT    ME    EVER, 
JAMIE 

Suggested  to  Thomson  (September,  1793)  as 
words  for  Fee  Him  Father :  "I  enclose  you 
Fraser's  set  of  this  tune  when  he  plays  it  slow  : 
in  fact,  he  makes  it  the  language  of  despair ! 
I  shall  here  give  you  two  stanzas  in  that  style, 
merely  to  try  if  it  will  be  any  improvement. 
Were  it  possible,  in  singing,  to  give  it  half  the 
pathos  which  Fraser  gives  it  in  playing,  it 
would  make  an  admirably  pathetic  song.  I 
do  not  give  these  verses  for  any  merit  they 
have.  I  composed  them  at  the  time  in  which 
'  Patie  Allan's  mither  de'ed  '  —  that  was  '  about 
the  back  o'  midnight '  —  and  by  the  leeside  of 
a  bowl  of  punch,  which  had  overset  every  mor- 
tal in  company  except  the  Hauthois  and  the 
Muse." 


Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie, 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever  ! 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie, 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever  ! 
Aften  hast  thou  vow'd  that  Death 

Only  should  us  sever; 
Now  thou  'st  left  thy  lass  for  ay  — 

I  maun  see  thee  never,  Jamie, 

I  '11  see  thee  never  ! 


Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie, 
Thou  hast  me  forsaken  ! 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie, 
Thou  hast  me  forsaken  ! 

Thou  canst  love  another  jo, 
While  my  heart  is  breaking  — 

Soon  my  weary  een  I  '11  close. 
Never  mair  to  waken,  Jamie, 
Never  mair  to  waken  ! 


HIGHLAND    MARY 

Sent  to  Thomson,  14th  November,  1792: 
"  The  foregoing  song  pleases  myself  ;  I  think 
it  is  in  my  happiest  manner;  you  will  see  at 
first  glance  that  it  suits  the  air.     The  subject 


288 


SONGS   FROM  THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS" 


of  the  song  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  pas- 
sages of  my  youtlif  ul  days ;  and  I  own  that  I 
would  be  much  flattered  to  see  the  verses  set 
to  an  air  which  would  ensure  celebrity.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  't  ia  the  still  glowing  prejudice 
of  my  heart  that  throws  a  borrowed  lustre 
over  the  merits  of  the  composition."  For 
Mary  Campbell  see  ante,  p.  204,  Prefatory 
Note  to  My  Highland  Lassie,  O. 


Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  Summer  first  unfald  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary  ! 


How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay,  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie: 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder. 
But  O,  fell  Death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green  's  the  sod,  and  cauld  's  the  clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 


O,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly ; 
And  clos'd  for  ay,  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwalt  on  me  sae  kindly ; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


MY   CHLORIS,   MARK 

' '  On   my   visit    the    other   day   to   my   f air 
Chloris  (tkEit  is  the  poetic  najue  of  the  lovely 


goddess  of  my  inspiration)  she  suggested  an 
idea  which  on  my  return  from  the  visit  I 
wrought  into  the  following  song."  (R.  B.  to 
Tnomson  in  November,  1794.)  For  Chloris  see 
post,  p.  289,  Prefatory  Note  to  Lassie  wi'  the 
Lint-white  Locks. 


My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 
The  primrose  banks  how  fair  ! 

The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers, 
And  wave  thy  flaxen  hair. 


The  lav'rock  shuns  the  palace  gay. 
And  o'er  the  cottage  sings: 

For  Nature  smiles  as  sweet,  I  ween, 
To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 


Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu'  string 

In  lordly,  lighted  ha': 
The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 

Blythe  in  the  birken  shaw. 


The  princely  revel  may  survey 
Our  rustic  dance  wi'  scorn; 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  ? 


The  shepherd  in  the  flowery  glen 
In  shepherd's  phrase  will  woo: 

The  courtier  tells  a  finer  tale  — 
But  is  his  heart  as  true  ? 

VI 

Here  wild-wood  flowers  I  've  pu'd,  to  deck 

That  spotless  breast  o'  thine: 
The  courtier's  gems  may  witness  love  — 

But 't  is  na  love  like  mine  ! 


FAIREST   MAID   ON   DEVON 
BANKS 

Bums' s  last  song.  "  I  tried  my  hand  on 
Rothiemurchie  this  morning.  The  measure  is 
so  difficult  that  it  is  impossible  to  infuse  much 
genius  into  the  lines;  they  are  on  the  other 
side."     (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  12th  July,  1796.) 

As  in  1787  he  had  complimented  Charlotte 
Hamilton  in  The  Banks  of  the  Devon,  it  may 


LASSIE  Wr   THE   LINT-WHITE   LOCKS 


289 


be  that  she  is  the  "  fairest  maid  "  of  the  pre- 
sent song,  although  some  refer  it  to  a  break  in 
his  friendship  with  Peggy  Chalmers,  or  to  her 
refusal  to  marry  him  (see  ante,  p.  214,  Prefa- 
tory Note  to  Where,  Braving  Angry  Winter  s 
Storms).  But,  although  the  Devon  is  real 
enough,  the  "  maid  "  in  this  case  may  have  been 
pure  fiction. 

CHORUS 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 
Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 

Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside, 

And  smile  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do  ? 


Full  well  thou  know'st  I  love  thee  dear  — 
Couldst  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear  ! 
O,  did  not  Love  exclaim:  —  "  Forbear, 
Nor  use  a  faithful  lover  so  ! " 

II 

Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair. 
Those  wonted  smiles,  O,  let  me  share, 
And  by  thy  beauteous  self  I  swear 

No  love  but  thine  my  heart  shall  know  ! 

CHORUS 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks. 
Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 

Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside. 

And  smile  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do  ? 


LASSIE    wr    THE     LINT-WHITE 
LOCKS 

"I  have  finished  ray  song  to  Eothiemurchie^ s 
Rant.  ,  .  .  The  piece  has  at  least  the  merit  of 
being  a  regular  pastoral ;  the  vernal  morn,  the 
summer  noon,  the  autumnal  evening,  and  the 
winter  night,  are  regularly  rounded."  (R.  B. 
to  Thomson,  November,  1794.) 

The  Chloris  who  did  duty  as  Burns's  Muse 
for  some  time  after  his  break  with  Maria  Rid- 
dell  was  the  daughter  of  William  Loriraer, 
farmer  and  publican,  Kemmishall,  near  Dum- 
fries. She  was  born  in  September,  1775,  at 
Craigieburn  Wood,  which  her  poet  has  associ- 
ated with  a  Mr.  Gillespie,  a  brother  ganger 
(see  p.  231),  and  his  passion  for  her  —  Gilles- 
pie's disappointment,  when  she  eloped  to 
Gretna  Green  with  a  prodigal  young  English- 
man, one  Whepdale,  tenant  of  a  farm  near 
Moffat,  being  shadowed  forth  in  O  Poortith 


Cauld  (p.  274).  The  lady  was  still  a  bride, 
when  her  husband  tied  his  creditors  across  the 
border;  and,  her  illusion  being  no  more,  she 
returned  to  her  parents  and  resumed  her 
maiden  name.  Her  misfortunes  so  touched 
the  Bard  that  he  became  exceedingly  en- 
amoured of  her.  He  re-wrote  Whistle  and 
1  HI  Come  to  You  My  Lad  in  her  honour ;  on 
her  behalf  appropriated  part  of  an  earlier 
song,  And  I'll  Kiss  Thee  Yet  (p.  213),  to  com- 
plete Come,  Let  Me  Take  Thee  (p.  279) ;  cele- 
brated her  illness  in  a  new  set  of  Ay  W^au- 
kin,  O  (p.  290,  Long,  Long  the  Night) ;  and 
exalted  her  in  such  ''  reveries  of  passion  "  as 
the  present  song,  as  My  Chloris  Mark  (p.  288), 
as  Mark  Yonder  Pomp  (p.  294),  as  Forlorn, 
My  Love  (p.  292),  and  as  Yon  Bosy  Brier  (p. 
291),  to  name  but  these.  He  thus  described 
to  Thomson  her  relation  to  his  work :  "  The 
lady  on  whom  it  [Craigieburn  Wood]  was  made 
is  one  of  the  finest  women  in  Scotland  ;  and, 
in  fact  (entre  nous)  is,  in  a  manner  to  me, 
what  Sterne's  Eliza  was  to  him — a  Mistress, 
or  Friend,  or  what  you  will,  in  the  guUeless 
simplicity  of  Platonic  love.  (Now  don't  put 
any  of  your  squinting  constructions  on  this, 
or  have  any  clishmaclavers  about  it  among 
our  acquaintances.)  I  assure  you  that  to  my 
lovely  Friend  you  are  indebted  for  many  of 
your  best  songs  of  mine.  Do  you  think  that 
the  sober  gin-horse  routine  of  existence  could 
inspire  a  man  with  life,  and  love,  and  joy  — 
could  fire  him  with  enthusiasm  or  melt  him 
with  pathos  equal  to  the  genius  of  your  Book  ? 
No,  No !  Whenever  I  want  to  be  more  than 
ordinary  in  song  —  to  be  in  some  degree  equal 
to  your  diviner  airs  —  do  you  imagine  I  fast 
and  pray  for  the  celestial  emanation  ?  Tout 
au  contraire  !  I  have  a  glorious  recipe  ;  the 
very  one  that  for  his  own  use  was  invented  to 
the  Divinity  of  Healing  and  Poesy,  when  erst 
he  piped  to  the  flocks  of  Adraetus.  I  put  my- 
self in  the  regimen  of  admiring  a  fine  woman ; 
and  in  proportion  to  the  adorability  of  her 
charms,  in  proportion  you  are  delighted  with 
my  verses."  Towards  the  close  of  1795  he  (for 
whatever  reason)  grew  disenchanted  with  the 
"adorability"  of  this  particular  "fine  wo- 
man," and  would  rather,  as  we  have  seen, 
that  neither  her  name  nor  her  "  charms  "  were 
associated  with  his  fame.  The  poor  lady's 
later  years  were  unfortunate.  Her  father  lost 
his  money,  and,  compelled  to  support  herself, 
she  went  into  service,  dying  as  late  as  Septem- 
ber, ISol. 


CHORUS 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks, 
Bonie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 


290 


SONGS   FROM   THOMSON'S    "SCOTTISH    AIRS 


Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tent  the  flocks  — 
Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  O  ? 


Now  Nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea, 
And  a'  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee, 
O  wilt  thou  share  its  joys  wi'  me, 
And  say  thou  'It  be  my  dearie,  O  ? 


The  primrose  bank,  the  wimpling  burn. 
The  cuckoo  on  the  milk-white  thorn. 
The  wanton  lambs  at  early  morn 
Shall  welcome  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 


And  when  the  welcome  simmer  shower 
Has  cheer'd  ilk  drooping  little  flower, 
We  '11  to  the  breathing  woodbine-bower 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  O. 


When  Cynthia  lights  wi'  silver  ray 
The  weary  shearer's  hameward  way, 
Thro'  yellow  waving  fields  we  '11  stray, 
And  talk  o'  love,  my  dearie,  O. 


And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie's  midnight  rest. 
Enclasped  to  my  faithfu'  breast, 
I  '11  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 

CHORUS 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks, 
Bonie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tent  the  flocks  — 
Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  O  ? 


LONG,  LONG   THE    NIGHT 

A  rather  tawdry  set  of  Ay  Waukin,  O  {ante, 
p.  217).  See  ante,  p.  289,  Prefatory  Note  to 
Lassie  wV  the  Lint-white  Locks. 

CHORUS 

Long,  long  the  night. 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow, 

While  my  soul's  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 


Can  I  cease  to  care. 

Can  I  cease  to  languish. 

While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish  ! 


Ev'ry  hope  is  fled 

Ev'ry  fear  is  terror: 
Slumber  ev'n  I  dread, 

Ev'ry  dream  is  horror. 

in 

Hear  me.  Powers  Divine: 

O,  in  pity,  hear  me  ! 
Take  aught  else  of  mine. 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me  ! 

CHORUS 

Long,  long  the  night, 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow, 

While  my  soul's  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 


LOGAN   WATER 

"  Have  you  ever,  tny  dear  Sir,  felt  your 
bosom  ready  to  burst  with  indignation  on 
reading,  or  seeing  how  these  mighty  villains 
who  divide  kingdom  against  kingdom  desolate 
provinces  and  lay  Nations  waste,  out  of  the 
wantonness  of  ambition,  or  often  from  still 
naore  ignoble  passions  ?  In  a  mood  of  this 
kind  to-day,  I  recollected  the  air  of  Logan 
Water,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  its  queru- 
lous melody  probably  had  its  origin  from  the 
plaintive  indignation  of  some  swelling,  suffer- 
ing heart,  fired  at  the  tyrannic  strides  of  some 
Public  Destroyer,  and  overwhelmed  with  pri- 
vate distress,  the  consequences  of  a  country's 
ruin.  If  I  have  done  anything  like  justice  to 
my  feelings,  the  following  song,  composed  in 
three-quarters  of  an  hour's  lucubrations  in  my 
elbow-chair,  oiight  to  have  some  merit."  (R.  B. 
to  Thomson,  25tli  June,  1793.) 

"  I  remember  two  ending  lines  of  a  verse  in 
some  of  the  old  songs  of  Logan  Water  (for 
I  know  a  good  many  different  ones)  which  I 
think  pretty  :  — 

"  '  Now  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  Braes.'  " 

(R.  B.  to  Thomson,  3d  April,  1793.) 


WHERE  ARE  THE  JOYS 


291 


O  Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride, 
And  years  sin  syne  hae  o'er  us  run 
Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 
But  now  thy  flowery  banks  appear 
Like  drumlie  winter,  dark  and  drear, 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 


Again  the  merry  month  of  May 

Has  made  our  hills  and  vallies  gay; 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers. 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flowers; 

Blythe  Morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye. 

And  Evening's  tears  are  tears  o'  joy: 

My  soul  delightless  a'  surveys. 

While  Willie  's  far  fra  Logan  braes. 


Within  yon  milk-white  hawthorn  bush, 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush: 
Her  faithf u'  mate  wUl  share  her  toil, 
Or  wi'  his  song  her  cares  beguile. 
But  I  wi'  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 
Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer, 
Pass  widow'd  nights  and  joyless  days. 
While  Willie  's  far  frae  Logan  braes. 


O,  wae  upon  you,  Men  o'  State, 
That  brethren  rouse  in  deadly  hate  ! 
As  ye  make  monie  a  fond  heart  mourn, 
Sae  may  it  on  your  heads  return  ! 
Te  mindna  'mid  your  cruel  joys 
The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cries; 
But  soon  may  peace  bring  happy  days. 
And  Willie  hame  to  Logan  braes  ! 


YON   ROSY   BRIER 


O,  BONIE  was  yon  rosy  brier 

That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunt  o'  man, 
And  bonie  she  —  and  ah,  how  dear  !  — 

It  shaded  frae  the  e'euin  sun  ! 


Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew. 

How  pure  among  the  leaves  sae  green  ! 


But  purer  was  the  lover's  vow 

They  witnessed  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

Ill 
All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower, 

That  crimson  rose  how  sweet  and  fair ! 
But  love  is  far  a  sweeter  flower 

Amid  life's  thorny  path  o'  care. 

IV 
The  pathless  wild  and  wimpling  burn, 

Wi'  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine, 
And  I  the  warld  nor  wish  nor  scorn  — 

Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign  ! 


WHERE   ARE   THE   JOYS 

"  Saw  Ye  My  Father  ?  is  one  of  my  greatest 
favourites.  The  evening'  before  last  I  wan- 
dered out,  and  began  a  tender  song  in  what 
I  think  is  its  native  style.  .  .  .  My  song  is  but 
just  begun ;  and  I  should  like,  before  I  pro- 
ceed, to  know  your  opinion  of  it."  (R.  B.  to 
Thomson,  in  his  comments  on  the  latter's  list 
of  an  hundred  songs,  September,  1793.)  The 
completed  song  he  sent  to  Thomson  shortly 
afterwards,  with  the  advice  to  set  the  air  to 
the  old  words,  and  let  his  "follow  as  English 
verses." 


Where  are   the   joys   I   hae  met  in  the 
morning, 
That  danc'd  to  the  lark's  early  sang  ? 
Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my  wan- 
d'ring 
At  e'ening  the  wild-woods  amang  ? 


Nae  mair  a-winding  the  course  o'  yon  river 
And  marking  sweet  flowerets  sae  fair, 

Nae  mair   I  trace  the  light  footsteps  o' 
Pleasure, 
But  Sorrow  and  sad-sighing  Care. 

Ill 

Is  it  that  Summer 's  forsaken  our  vallies, 
And  grim,  surly  Winter  is  near  ? 

No,  no,  the  bees  humming  round  the  gay 
roses 
Proclaim  it  the  pride  o'  the  year. 


Fain  wad  I  hide  what  I  fear  to  discover. 
Yet  lang,  lang,  too  well  hae  I  known: 


'92 


SONGS   FROM   THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS 


A'  that  has  caused  the  wreck  in  my  bosom 
Is  Jemiy,  fair  Jenny  alone  ! 


Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immor- 
tal, 
Not  Hope  dare  a  comfort  bestow. 
Come  then,  euamor'd  and  fond  of  my  an- 
guish, 
Enjoyment  I  '11  seek  in  ray  woe  ! 


BEHOLD   THE    HOUR 

"  The  following'  song-  I  have  composed  for 
Or  an  Gaoil,  the  Highland  air  that  you  tell  me 
in  your  last  you  have  resolved  to  give  a  place 
in  your  book.  I  have  this  moment  finished 
the  song,  so  you  have  it  glowing  from  the  mint. 
If  it  suit  you,  well !  if  not  'tis  also  well!  " 
(R.  B.  to  Thomson,  September,  1793.) 

It  is  from  a  song  sent  to  Clarinda  in  1791 ; 
but  this  itself  was  little  more  than  a  transcript 
of  a  certain  Farewell  to  Nice,  to  be  found  in 
The  Charmer  and  other  books  {see post,  p.  312). 


Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive  ! 

Thou  goest,  the  darling  of  my  heart  ! 
Sever'd  from  thee,  can  I  survive  ? 

But  Fate  has  will'd  and  we  must  part. 
I  '11  often  greet  the  surging  swell, 

Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail:  — 
"  E'en  here  I  took  the  last  farewell; 

There,  latest  mark'd  her  vanish'd  sail." 


Along  the  solitary  shore. 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry, 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I  '11  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye :  — 
"Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,"  I'll  say, 

"Where  now  my  Nancy's  path  may  be  ! 
While  thro'  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray, 

O,  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ?  " 


FORLORN,   MY    LOVE 

"  How  do  you  like  the  foregoing  ?  I  have 
written  it  within  this  hour ;  so  much  for  the 
speed  of  my  Pegasus,  but  what  say  you  to  his 
bottom  ?  "     (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  May,  1795.) 


CHORUS 


O,  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me, 
But  near,  near,  near  me. 
How  kindly  thou  would  cheer  me, 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love  ! 


Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
Far,  far  from  thee  I  wander  here ; 
Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe. 
At  which  I  most  repine,  love. 


Around  me  scowls  a  wintry  sky, 
Blasting  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy, 
And  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  I 
Save  in  these  arms  of  thine,  love. 


Cold,  alter'd  friendship's  cruel  part, 
To  poison  Fortune's  ruthless  dart ! 
Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart. 
And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love  ! 


But,  dreary  tho'  the  moments  fleet, 
O,  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet ! 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love  ! 

CHORUS 

O,  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me, 
But  near,  near,  near  me, 
How  kindly  thou  would  cheer  me. 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love  f 


CA'    THE    YOWES     TO     THE 
KNOWES 

SECOND    SET 

Sent  to  Thomson  in  September,  1794,  [four 
years  after  the  appearance  of  the  first  set  in 
Johnson's  Musical  Museum].  See  ante,  p.  224, 
Prefatory  Note  to  Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes 
(first  set). 

CHORUS 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rowes, 
My  bonie  dearie. 


HOW   CAN    MY   POOR   HEART 


293 


Hark,  the  mavis'  e'ening  sang 
Sounding  Clouden's  woods  amang  ; 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang, 
My  bonie  dearie. 


We  '11  gae  down  by  Clouden  side, 
Thro'  the  hazels,  spreading  wide 
O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

ni 

Yonder  Clouden's  silent  towers 
Where,  at  moonshine's  midnight  hours, 
O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 


Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear  — 
Thou  'rt  to  Love  and  Heav'n  sae  dear 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 
My  bonie  dearie. 

CHORUS 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rowes, 
My  bonie  dearie. 


HOW   CAN    MY   POOR    HEART 

"  The  last  evening  as  I  was  straying  out, 
and  thinking  of  O'er  the  Hills  and  Far  Away, 
I  spun  the  following  stanzas  for  it ;  but 
whether  my  spinning  wiU  deserve  to  be  laid 
up  in  store,  like  the  precious  thread  of  the 
silkworm,  or  brushed  to  the  devil,  like  the 
vile  manufacture  of  the  spider.  I  leave,  my 
dear  sir,  to  your  usual  candid  criticism.  I  was 
pleased  with  several  lines  in  it  at  first,  but  I 
own  that  it  appears  rather  a  flimsy  business. 
...  I  give  you  leave  to  abuse  this  song,  but  do 
it  in  the  spirit  of  Christian  meekness."  (R.  B. 
to  Thomson,  30th  August,  1794.)  Thomson 
took  him  at  his  word,  whereupon  he  replied  : 
'■  I  shall  withdraw  my  O^er  the  Seas  and  Far 
Away  altogether  ;  it  is  unequal,  and  unworthy 
of  the  work.  Making  a  poem  is  like  begetting 
a  son  ;  you  cannot  know  whether  you  have  a 
wise  man  or  a  fool,  until  you  produce  him  to 
the  world  and  try  him." 


How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad 

When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  ? 

How  can  I  the  thought  forego  — 

He  's  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe  ? 

Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove, 

Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love. 

Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 

Are  with  him  that 's  far  away. 
On  the  seas  and  far  away. 
On  stormy  seas  and  far  away  — 
Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day. 
Are  ay  with  him  that 's  far  away. 

II 
When  in  summer  noon  I  faint. 
As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant, 
Haply  in  this  scorching  sun 
My  sailor 's  thund'ring  at  his  gun. 
Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  ! 
Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy  ! 
Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may. 
Spare  but  him  that 's  far  away  ! 
On  the  seas  and  far  away, 
On  stormy  seas  and  far  away  — 
Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may. 
Spare  but  him  that 's  far  away  ! 

Ill 

At  the  starless,  midnight  hour 

When  Winter  rules  with  boundless  power, 

As  the  storms  the  forests  tear, 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air, 

Listening  to  the  doubling  roar 

Surging  on  the  rocky  shore, 

All  I  can  —  I  weep  and  pray 

For  his  weal  that 's  far  away. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away. 

On  stormy  seas  and  far  away, 

All  I  can  —  I  weep  and  pray 

For  his  weal  that 's  far  away. 


Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend 

And  bid  wild  W^ar  his  ravage  end; 

Man  with  brother  man  to  meet, 

And  as  brother  kindly  greet ! 

Then  may  Heaven  with  prosperous  gales 

Fill  my  sailor's  welcome  sails, 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey, 

My  dear  lad  that 's  far  away  ! 
On  the  seas  and  far  away, 
On  stormy  seas  and  far  away. 
To  my  arms  their  charge  convey, 
My  dear  lad  that 's  far  away  ! 


«94 


SONGS   FROM  THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS 


IS    THERE    FOR    HONEST 
POVERTY 

"  A  great  critic  (Aikin)  on  songs  says  that 
Love  and  Wine  are  the  exclusive  themes  for 
song-writing.  The  following  is  on  neither  sub- 
ject, and  consequently  is  no  song.  ...  I  do 
not  give  you  the  foregoing  song  for  your  book, 
but  merely  by  way  of  vive  la  bagatelle ;  for  the 
piece  is  not  really  poetry."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson, 
January,  1795.) 

In  all  likelihood  the  oldest  set  of  For  a'  That 
is  one  in  The  Merry  Muses.  Apparently  sug- 
gested by  the  Highlander's  imperfect  Scots 
(the  hero  is  specifically  some  bare-breeched 
Donald),  the  phrase  was  found  effective  for  a 
certain  class  of  ditty  —  the  ditty  which  (as 
Bums  says  of  this  one)  "  is  not  really  poetry." 
A  Jacobite  derivative,  which  he  knew  likewise, 
is  included  in  a  Collection  of  Loyal  Songs,  1750. 
It  begins  thus : 


I  'm  grieved,  yet  scorn  to  shaw  tliat : 
I  '11  ne'er  look  down  nor  hang  my  head 
On  rebel  Whig  for  a'  that :  " 

and  has  this  chorus  : 

"  For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

And  twice  as  muckle  's  a'  that, 

He 's  far  beyond  the  seas  the  night, 

Yet  he  '11  be  here  for  a'  that." 

Like  Scots  Wha  Hae  — "the  Scottish  Mar- 
seillaise^^ (whatever  that  may  mean)  —  this 
famous  song  —  "  the  Marseillaise  of  hu- 
manity "  (whatever  that  may  mean)  —  which, 
according  to  Chambers,  "  may  be  said  to 
embody  all  the  false  philosophy  of  Burris's 
time  and  of  his  own  mind,"  is  very  plainly 
an  effect  of  the  writer's  sympathies  with  the 
spirit  and  the  fact  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, and  of  that  estrangement  from  wealthier 
loyalist  friends,  with  which  his  expression 
of  these  sympathies  and  his  friendship  with 
such  "  sons  of  sedition "  as  Maxwell  (see 
ante,  p.  188,  Prefatory  Note  to  Ye  True 
Loyal  Natives,  and  p.  190,  Prefatory  Note  to 
To  Dr.  Maxwell)  had  been  visited. 

I 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by  — 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man 's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 


What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodcliu  grey,  an'  a'  that  ? 
Gie    fools   their    silks,   and  knaves   their 
wine  — 

A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that. 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ill 

Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  "  a  lord," 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that  ? 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He  's  but  a  cuif  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

His  ribband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 

He  looks  an'  laughs  at  a'  that. 


A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that  ! 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might  — 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense  an'  pride  o'  worth 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 


Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that) 
That  Sense  and  Worth  o'er  a'  the  earth 

Shall  bear  the  gree  an'  a'  that  ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It 's  comin  yet  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man  the  world  o'er 

Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that. 


MARK  YONDER   POMP 

I 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion 
Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride  ! 

But,  when  compar'd  with  real  passion, 
Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 


What  are  the  showy  treasures  ? 
What  are  the  noisy  pleasures  ? 


O   PHILLY,    HAPPY   BE  THAT   DAY 


295 


The  gay,  gaudy  glare  of  vauity  and  art  ! 

The  polish'd  jewel's  blaze 

May  draw  the  woud'ring  gaze, 

And  courtly  grandeur  bright 

The  fancy  may  delight, 
But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  heart  ! 

Ill 

But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris 

In  simplicity's  array, 
Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower  is. 

Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day  ? 

IV 

O,  then,  the  heart  alarming 

And  all  resistless  charming, 
In  love's  delightful  fetters  she  chains  the 
willing  soul  ! 

Ambition  would  disown 

The  world's  imperial  crown  ! 

Ev'n  Avarice  would  deny 

His  worshipp'd  deity. 
And  feel  thro'  every  vein  love's  raptures 
roU! 


O,  LET  ME  IN  THIS   AE  NIGHT 

CHORUS 

O,  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 
This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ! 
O,  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 
And  rise,  and  let  me  in  ! 


O  LASSIE,  are  ye  sleepin  yet, 
Oi  are  ye  waukin,  I  wad  wit  ? 
For  Love  has  bound  me  hand  an'  fit, 
And  I  would  fain  be  in,  jo. 


Thoii  hear'st  the  winter  wind  an'  weet : 
Nae  star  blinks  thro'  the  driving  sleet  ! 
Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet. 
And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

Ill 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws. 
Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa's: 
The  cauldness  o'  thy  heart 's  the  cause 
Of  a'  my  care  and  pine,  jo. 


CHORUS 


O,  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 
This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ! 
O,  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 
And  rise  and  let  me  in  ! 


HER  ANSWER 
CHORUS 

I  tell  you  now  this  ae  night, 
This  ae,  ae,  ae  night, 
And  auce  for  a'  this  ae  night, 
I  winna  let  ye  in,  jo. 


O,  TELL  me  na  o'  wind  an'  rain, 
Upbraid  na  me  wi'  cauld  disdain, 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam  again, 
I  winna  let  ye  in,  jo  ! 


The  snellest  blast  at  mirkest  hours. 
That  round  the  pathless  wand'rer  pours 
Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures. 
That 's  trusted  faithless  man,  jo. 

Ill 

The  sweetest  flower  that  deck'd  the  mead, 
Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed  — 
Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  read  ! 
The  weii'd  may  be  her  ain,  jo. 

IV 

The  bird  that  cbarm'd  his  summer  day, 
And  now  the  cruel  fowler's  prey. 
Let  that  to  witless  woman  say:  — 
"  The  gratefu'  heart  of  man,"  jo. 

CHORUS 

I  tell  you  now  this  ae  night. 
This  ae,  ae,  ae  night, 
And  ance  for  a'  this  ae  night, 
I  winna  let  ye  in,  jo. 


O  PHILLY,  HAPPY  BE  THAT  DAY 

'■  Did  you  not  once  propose  The  Sow's  Tail 
to  Geordie  as  an  air  for  your  work  ?  I  am 
quite  delighted  with  it;  but  I  acknowledge 
that  is  no  mark  of  its  real  excellence.  I  once 
set  about  verses  for  it,  which  I  meant  to  be  in 


ig6 


SONGS   FROM  THOMSON'S   "SCOTTISH   AIRS" 


the  alternate  way  of  a  lover  and  his  mistress 
chanting  together.  ...  I  have  just  written 
four  stanzas  at  random,  which  I  intended  to 
have  woven  somewhere  into,  probably  at  the 
conclusion  of,  the  song."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson, 
September,  17'J4.)  He  finished  the  duet  one 
morning  in  November,  '*  though  a  keen  blow- 
ing frost,"  in  his  "  walk  before  breakfast." 
The  portion  written  in  September  consisted  of 
stanzas  iv.  and  v. 

CHORUS 
He  and  She.  For  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can 
gie, 
I  diuna  care  a  single  flie  ! 

The    -^1       >•      I    love   's    the 
I  lass  \ 

Had  )  f 

ilassr°'°'^'. 
And    that 's    my    ain    dear 
(  Willy  I 
I  PhiUy  ; 

I 

He.    O  Philly,  happy  be  that  day 

When,  roving  thro'  the  gather'd  hay, 
My  youthfu'  heart  was  stown  away, 
And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly  ! 
She.  O  Willy,  ay  I  bless  the  grove 

Where  first  I  own'd  my  maiden  love. 
Whilst  thou  did  pledge  the  Powers 
above 
To  be  my  ain  dear  WiUy. 

II 
He.    As  songsters  of  the  early  year 
Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear. 
So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 
And  charming  is  my  Pliilly. 
She.  As  on  the  brier  the  budding  rose 

Still  richer  breathes,  and  fairer  blows, 
So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 
The  love  I  bear  my  Willy. 

Ill 
He.    The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky, 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi'  joy. 
Were  ne'er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 
As  is  a  sight  o'  Philly. 
She.  The  little  swallow's  wanton  wing, 

Tho'  wafting  o'er  the  flowery  spring, 
Did  ne'er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring 
As  meeting  o'  my  Willy. 

IV 
He.    The  bee,  that  thro'  the  sunny  hour 
Sips  nectar  in  the  op'ning  flower, 


Compar'd  wi'  my  delight  is  poor 

Upon  the  lips  o'  Philly. 
She.  The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet. 

When  ev'ning  shades  in  silence  meet. 
Is  nocht  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 

As  is  a  kiss  o'  Willy. 


He.    Let  Fortune's  wheel  at  random  rin, 
And  fools  may  tyne,  and  knaves  may 

win  ! 
My  thoughts  are  a'  bound  up  on  ane. 
And  that 's  my  ain  dear  Philly. 
She.  What 's  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie  ? 
I  dinna  care  a  single  flie  ! 
The  lad  I  love  's  the  lad  for  me. 
And  that 's  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

CHORUS 

He  and  She.  For  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can 
gie, 
I  dinna  care  a  single  flie  ! 

The    <  ,       }■     I     love  's     the 
I  lass  3 


(lad  K 

I  lass  r^''"^' 


And    that 's    my    ain    dear 
S  Willy  > 

i  Philly ; 


O,   WERE    MY   LOVE 

The  second  stanza  is  a  fragment  preserved 
in  Herd's  Collection:  "This  thought  is  inex- 
pressibly beautiful,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  quite 
original.  It  is  too  short  for  a  song,  else  I 
would  forswear  you  altogether  except  you  gave 
it  a  place.  I  have  often  tried  to  eke  a  stanza 
to  it,  but  in  vain.  After  balancing  myself  for 
a  musing  five  minutes  on  the  hind-legs  of  my 
elbow-chair,  I  produced  the  following  [  Were 
My  Love  Yon  Lilac  Fair,  etc.].  The  verses 
are  far  inferior  to  the  foregoing,  I  frankly  con- 
fess ;  but,  if  worthy  of  insertion  at  all,  they 
might  be  first  in  place,  as  every  Poet  who 
knows  anything  of  his  trade  will  husband  his 
best  thoughts  for  a  concluding  stroke."  (R.  B. 
to  Thomson,  June,  1793.) 

In  the  Herd  MS.  there  is  also  a  set  three 
stanzas  in  lengfth  : 

"  O,  if  ray  love  was  a  pickle  of  wheat. 
And  growing  upon  yon  lilly  white  lea. 
And  I  myself  a  bonny  sweet  bird, 
Away  with  that  pickle  I  would  flie. 

"  O,  if  my  love  was  a  bonny  red  rose,"  etc- 


THERE  WAS   A  LASS 


297 


O,  WERE  my  love  yon  lilac  fair 

Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring, 
And  I  a  bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing. 
How  I  wad  mourn  when  it  was  torn 

By  Autumn  wild  and  Winter  rude  ! 
But  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youthfu'  May  its  bloom  renew'd. 


O,  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa', 
And  I  mysel  a  drap  o'  dew 

Into  her  bonie  breast  to  fa', 
O,  there,  beyond  expression  blest, 

I  'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night, 
Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

Till  fley'd  awa  by  Phoebus'  light ! 


SLEEP'ST   THOU 


Sleep'st    thou,   or    wauk'st    thou,   fairest 
creature  ? 
Rosy  Morn  now  lifts  his  eye. 
Numbering  ilka  bud,  which  Nature 
Waters  wi'  the  tears  o'  joy. 
Now  to  the  streaming  fountain 
Or  up  the  heathy  mountain 
The   hart,    hind,   and   roe,   freely,  wildly- 
wanton  stray; 
In  twining  hazel  bowers 
His  lay  the  linnet  pours; 
The  laverock  to  the  sky 
Ascends  wi'  sangs  o'  joy. 
While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the 
day  ! 

II 

Phoebus,  gilding  the  brow  of  morning, 

Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade, 
Nature  gladdening  and  adorning: 

Such  to  me  my  lovely  maid  ! 

When  frae  my  Chloris  parted, 

Sad,  cheerless,  broken-hearted, 
The  night's  gloomy  shades,  cloudy,  dark, 
o'ercast  my  sky ; 

But  when  she  charms  my  sight 

In  pride  of  Beauty's  light. 

When  thro'  my  very  heart 

Her  beaming  glories  dart, 
'T  is  then  —  't  is  then  I  wake  to  life  and  joy  ! 


THERE   WAS   A   LASS 

The  heroine  was  Jean  M'Murdo,  daughter 
of  Burns's  friend,  John  M'Murdo  (see  ante,  p. 
143,  Prefatory  Note  to  To  John  M'Murdo). 
To  her  he  sent  a  copy :  "  In  the  inclosed  ballad 
I  have,  I  think,  hit  off  a  few  outlines  of  your 
portrait.  The  personal  charms,  the  purity  of 
mind,  the  ingenuous  naivete  of  heart  and  man- 
ners in  my  heroine  are,  I  flatter  myself,  a 
pretty  just  likeness  of  Miss  M'Murdo  in  a  cot- 
tage." 


There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair  ! 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen 
When  a'  our  fairest  maids  were  met, 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonie  Jean. 


And  ay  she  wrought  her  country  wark, 
And  ay  she  sang  sae  merrilie: 

The  blythest  bird  upon  the  bush 
Had  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she  ! 


But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys, 
That  bless  the  little  lintwhite's  nest. 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers, 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 


Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad, 
The  flower  and  pride  of  a'  the  glen, 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 
And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 


He  gaed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  tryste, 
He  danc'd  wi'  Jeanie  on  the  down. 

And,  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist. 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stown 


As  in  the  bosom  of  the  stream 

The  moon-beam  dwells  at  dewy  e'en, 

So,  trembling  pure,  was  tender  love 
Within  the  breast  of  bonie  Jean. 

VII 

And  now  she  works  her  country's  wark, 
And  ay  she  sighs  wi'  care  and  pain. 

Yet  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 
Or  what  wad  make  her  weel  again. 


298 


SONGS   FROM    THOMSON'S    "SCOTTISH  AIRS" 


But  did  na  Jeanie's  heart  loup  light, 
And  did  na  joy  blink  in  her  e'e, 

As  Robie  tauld  a  tale  o'  love 
Ae  e'eoin  on  the  lily  lea  ? 


IX 


While  monie  a  bird  sang  sweet  o'  love, 
And  monie  a  flower  blooms  o'er  the  dale, 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  whisper'd  thus  his  tender  tale :  — 


"  O  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo'e  thee  dear. 

O,  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie's  cot. 

And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi'  me  ? 


*'  At  barn  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge. 
Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee, 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells, 
And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi'  me." 


Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do  ? 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na  ! 
At  length  she  blush'd  a  sweet  consent, 

And  love  was  ay  between  them  twa. 


THE   LEA-RIG 

"  On  reading  over  The  Lea-Big,  I  imme- 
diately set  about  trjring  my  hand  on  it,  and 
after  all,  I  could  make  nothing  more  of  it  than 
the  following,  which  Heaven  knows  is  poor 
enough."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson.)  Here  he  prob- 
ably referred  to  The  Lea-Big  in  Johnson's 
Museum.  This  is  his  note  on  it  in  the  Inter- 
leaved Copy  :  "  The  old  words  of  this  song  are 
omitted  here,  though  much  more  beautiful 
than  those  inserted,  which  were  mostly  com- 
posed by  poor  Fergusson  in  one  of  his  merry 
humours.     The  old  words  began  thus  : 

'  I  '11  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  deary,  O, 
I  '11  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  deary,  O. 
Altho'  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wat, 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary,  O. 
I  '11  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  deary,  O.'  " 

A  fuller  set  of  the  Museum  words  is  in  the 
Herd  ms.,  [which]  also  contains  a  fragment, 
which  is,  perhaps,  the  archetypal  original. 


When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 

Tells  bughtin  time  is  near,  my  jo, 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow'd  field 

Return  sae  dowf  and  weary,  O, 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks 

Wi'  dew  are  hangin  clear,  my  jo, 
I  '11  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 


At  midnight  hour  in  mirkest  glen 

I  'd  rove,  and  ne'er  be  eerie,  O, 
If  thro'  that  glen  I  gaed  to  thee, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O  ! 
Altho'  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wild, 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary,  0, 
I  '11  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 


The  hunter  lo'es  the  morning  sun 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo; 
At  noon  the  fisher  takes  the  glen 

Adown  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo: 
Gie  me  the  hour  o'  gloamin  grey  — 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery,  O, 
To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O  ! 


MY    WIFE  'S    A   WINSOME 
THING 


WEE 


"In  the  air — My  Wife^s  a  Wanton  Wee 
Thing — if  a  few  lines  smooth  and  pretty  can 
be  adapted  to  it,  it  is  all  you  can  expect.  The 
following  I  made  extempore  to  it ;  and  though, 
on  further  study,  I  might  give  you  something 
more  profound,  yet  it  might  not  suit  the  light- 
horse  gallop  of  the  air,  so  well  as  this  random 
clink."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  8th  November, 
1792.) 

CHORUS 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  lo'esome  wee  thing. 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine  ! 


I  NEVER  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer. 
And  nelst  my  heart  I  '11  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 


MARY   MORISON 


299 


The  warld's  wrack,  we  share  o't; 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't, 
Wi'  her  I  '11  blythely  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 


CHORUS 


She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  lo'esome  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 


MARY   MORISON 


This  little  masterpiece  of  feeling  and  ex- 
pression was  sent  to  Thomson,  20th  March, 
1793.  "  The  song  prefixed  is  one  of  my  juve- 
nile works.  I  leave  it  among  your  hands.  I 
do  not  think  it  very  remarkable  either  for  its 
merits  or  demerits."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson.) 
And  Thomson  sat  on  it  for  upwards  of  twenty- 
five  years.  Gilbert  Burns  told  him  that  Mary 
Morison  was  the  heroine  of  some  light  verses 
beginning:  And  I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet  (see  ante, 
p.  213).  She  has  therefore  been  identified  with 
Elison  Begbie.  But  a  Mary  Morison,  the 
daughter  of  one  Adjutant  Morison,  who  lived 
at  Mauchline  from  1784,  is  said  to  have  been 
as  beautiful  as  amiable.  She  died  of  consump- 
tion, 29th  August.  1791. 


O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ! 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour. 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor. 

How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 
A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun. 

Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure  — 
The  lovely  Mary  Morison  ! 


Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha'. 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw: 
Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigh'd  and  said  araang  them  a':  — 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison  !  " 

III 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 
At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown: 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o'  Mary  Morisou. 


MISCELLANEOUS    SONGS 


More  than  half  the  verse  of  Burns  was  pub- 
lished posthumously  ;  more  than  a  third  of  it 
without  his  sanction.  He  was  especially  "  un- 
thrifty of  his  sweets  ;  "  bestowing  them  on  all 
and  sundry,  as  if  he  had  been  denied  the  privi- 
lege of  publication  in  any  other  form.  Much 
of  his  work  was  in  the  strictest  sense  occa- 
sional ;  written  "  by  way  of  vive  la  bagatelle  " 
on  window-panes,  in  albums,  in  volumes,  in 
letters  to  friends.  He  never  dreamed,  or  not 
until  the  very  last,  that  the  world  would  cher- 
ish any  curiosity  about  these  fugitives ;  and 
death  came  to  him  ere  the  chance  of  sifting 
gold  from  dross  in  a  final  Edition.  Thus,  his 
unrealised  estate  (so  to  speak)  was  not  only  of 
peculiar  bulk :  it  was  also  of  many  qualities, 
and  it  was  variously  dispersed  among  a  crowd 
of  owners  ;  so  that  he  provided  the  gull  with 


no  defence  against  the  gidl -catcher,  —  he  left 
the  credulous  wholly  unarmed  and  unprepared 
against  the  contrivances  of  them  that  would 
deceive.  Again,  he  was  accustomed  to  jot 
down  from  recitation,  or  to  copy  from  letters, 
or  from  odd  volumes,  such  lines,  such  stan- 
zas, or  such  whole  pieces  as  took  his  fancy ; 
and  more  often  than  not  he  left  his  sources 
undenoted.  Withal,  he  would  dispatch  songs 
got  in  this  way  —  with  or  without  retouches 
—  for  publication,  especially  in  Johnson's  Mu- 
seum ;  and,  inasmuch  as  he  signed  not  all  those 
envoys  which  were  his  own,  the  task  of  sepa- 
rating false  from  true  is  one  of  very  consid- 
erable difficulty.  Often  the  probabilities  are 
our  only  guides  ;  and  in  these  cases  we  have 
summarised  the  evidence,  and  taken  that  di- 
rection in  which  the  balance  seemed  to  incline. 


300 


MISCELLANEOUS    SONGS 


In  others,  any  sort  of  evidence  is  of  the  scant- 
est ;  and  what  there  is  has  been  made  scanter 
Btill  by  the  carelessness  —  or  the  romantic  hu- 
mour, to  call  it  by  no  worse  a  name  —  of  such 
Editors  as  Allan  Cunningham,  Hogg  and 
Motherwell,  and  Robert  Chambers.  The  chief 
exemplar  in  the  other  sense  is  certainly  Scott 
Douglas,  who,  though  he  seems  to  have  pre- 
pared himself  for  the  work  of  editing  Burns 
by  resolutely  declining  to  read  any  one  else, 
was  zealous  in  his  quest  of  MS.  authorities,  and, 
had  he  known  something  of  literature,  and 
been  less  given  to  putting  on  what  Mr.  Swin- 


burne calls  "  a  foolish  face  of  praise  "  over 
any  and  every  thing  his  author  wrote,  might 
have  gone  far  to  establish  a  sound  tradition  in 
the  matter  of  text.  But  such  a  tradition  was 
scarce  indicated  ere  it  succumbed  to  sentimen- 
talism  and  pretence  ;  the  old,  hap-hazard,  irre- 
sponsible convention  stUl  holds  its  own  ;  and 
editions  professing  to  give  the  "  complete 
text,"  the  "  true  text,"  the  "  best  text,"  and 
the  like,  continue  to  be  issued,  which  set  forth 
an  abundance  of  proof  that  they  are  based  — 
some  wholly,  all  mainly  —  on  the  battered, 
jog-trot  hack-authorities  of  the  prime. 


A   RUINED    FARMER 

Probably  written  dming  the  crisis  of  Wil- 
liam Burness's  difficulties  at  Mount  Oliphant : 
"  The  farm  proved  a  ruinous  bargain  ;  and,  to 
clench  the  curse,  we  fell  into  the  hands  of  a 
factor,  who  sat  for  the  picture  I  have  drawn 
of  one  in  my  tale  of  Twa  Dogs."  (R.  B.  in 
Autobiographical  Letter.) 


The  sun  he  is  sunk  in  the  west, 
All  creatures  retired  to  rest, 
WhUe  here  I  sit,  all  sore  beset 

With  sorrow,  grief,  and  woe: 
And  it  's  O  fickle  Fortune,  Q  ! 


The  prosperous  man  is  asleep, 

Nor  hears  how  the  whirlwinds  sweep; 

But  Misery  and  I  must  watch 

The  surly  tempests  blow: 
And  it 's  O  fickle  Fortune,  O  ! 

Ill 

There  lies  the  dear  Partner  of  my  breast. 
Her  cares  for  a  moment  at  rest ! 
Must  I  see  thee,  my  youthful  pride, 

Thus  brought  so  very  low  ?  — 
And  it 's  O  fickle  Fortune,  O  ! 


There  lie  my  sweet  babies  in  her  arms; 
No  anxious  fear  their  little  hearts  alarms; 
But  for  their  sake  my  heart  does  ache. 

With  many  a  bitter  throe: 
And  it  's  O  fickle  Fortune,  O  ! 


I  once  was  by  Fortune  carest, 
I  once  could  relieve  the  distrest; 


Now  life's  poor  support,  hardly  earn'd, 

My  fate  will  scarce  bestow: 
And  it 's  O  fickle  Fortune,  O  ! 


No  comfort,  no  comfort  I  have  I 
How  welcome  to  me  were  the  grave  I 
But  then  my  wife  and  children  dear  — 

O,  whither  would  they  go  ! 
And  it 's  O  fickle  Fortune,  O  ! 


O,  whither,  O,  whither  shall  I  turn, 
All  friendless,  forsaken,  forlorn  ? 
For  in  this  world  Rest  or  Peace 

I  never  more  shall  know: 
And  it 's  O  fickle  Fortune,  O  J 


MONTGOMERIE'S    PEGGY 

"  My  Montgomerie's  Peggy  was  my  deity 
for  six  or  eight  months.  She  had  been  bred, 
tho',  as  the  world  says,  without  any  just  pre- 
tence for  it,  in  a  style  of  life  rather  elegant. 
But,  as  Vanburgh  says  in  one  of  his  comedies, 
'  my  damn'd  Star  found  me  out '  there  too, 
for  though  I  began  the  affair,  merely  in  a  gaiti 
de  cceur,  or,  to  tell  the  truth,  what  would 
scarcely  be  believed,  a  vanity  of  showing  my 
parts  in  courtship,  particularly  my  abilities  at 
a  billet  doux,  which  I  always  piqu'd  myself 
upon,  made  me  lay  siege  to  her  ;  and  when,  as 
I  always  do  in  my  foolish  gallantries,  I  had 
battered  myself  into  a  very  warm  affection  for 
her,  she  told  me  one  day,  in  a  flag  of  truce, 
that  her  fortress  had  been  for  some  time  before 
the  rightful  property  of  another  ;  but  with  the 
greatest  friendship  and  politeness,  she  offered 
me  every  alliance,  except  actual  possession." 
(R.  B.)  Mrs.  Begg  stated  that  the  girl  VM 
housekeeper  at  Coilfield  House. 


THE   LASS   OF  CESSNOCK  BANKS 


301 


Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir, 
Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie, 

Yet  happy,  happy  would  I  be, 

Had  I  my  dear  Montgomerie's  Peggy. 


When  o'er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms. 
And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy, 

I  'd  seek  some  deU,  and  in  my  arms 
I  'd  shelter  dear  Montgomerie's  Peggy. 


Were  I  a  Baron  proud  and  high. 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready, 

Then  a'  't  wad  gie  o'  joy  to  me  — 

The  sharin  't  with  Montgomerie's  Peggy. 


THE  LASS  OF  CESSNOCK  BANKS 

The  heroine  is  supposed  to  have  been  the 
Elison  Begbie  —  daughter  of  a  fanner  in  the 
parish  of  Galston  —  to  whom  Burns  made  what 
was  probably  his  first  offer  of  marriage,  in  let- 
ters (1780-81),  included  in  his  published  Cor- 
respondence. By  some  she  is  also  supposed  to 
have  been  the  heroine  of  And  I  HI  Kiss  Thee 
Yet  (ante,  p.  213). 


On  Cessnock  banks  a  lassie  dwells, 
Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien  ! 

Our  lasses  a'  she  far  excels  — 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 

n 

She  's  sweeter  than  the  morning  dawn, 
When  rising  Phcebus  first  is  seen. 

And  dew-drops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een! 


She  's  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash, 
That  grows  the  cowsHp  braes  between, 

And  drinks  the  stream  with  vigour  fresh  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een! 


She  's  spotless  like  the  flow'ring  thorn 
With  flow'rs    so   white   and    leaves   so 
green, 

When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn  — 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 


Her  looks  are  like  the  vernal  May, 
When  ev'ning  Phcebus  shines  serene. 

While  birds  rejoice  on  every  spray  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een ! 


VI 


Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist, 

That  climbs  the  mountain-sides  at  e'en. 

When  flow'r-reviving  rains  are  past  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 


Her  forehead  's  like  the  show'ry  bow, 
When  gleaming  sunbeams  intervene. 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een ! 

vm 

Her  cheeks  are  like  yon  crimson  gem, 
The  pride  of  all  the  flowery  scene. 

Just  opening  on  its  thorny  stem  — 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 


Her  teeth  are  like  the  nightly  snow. 
When  pale  the  morning  rises  keen. 

While  hid  the  murm'ring  streamlets  flow  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 


Her  lips  are  like  yon  cherries  ripe, 
That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen: 

They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 


Her  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean. 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 


Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze. 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom'd  bean, 

When  Phoebus  sinks  behind  the  seas  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een  ! 

XIII 

Her  voice  is  like  the  ev'ning  thrush, 
That  sings  on  Cessnock  banks  unseen, 

While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush  — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling,  rogueish  een ! 


302 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


But  it 's  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 
Tbo'  luatchiug  Beauty's  fabled  Queen: 

'T  is  the  mind  that  shines  in  ev'ry  grace  — 
An'  chiefly  iu  her  rogueish  een  ! 


THO'   FICKLE   FORTUNE 

"An  extempore  under  the  pressure  of  a 
heavy  train  of  misfortunes,  which,  indeed, 
threatened  to  undo  me  altogether.  It  was  just 
at  the  close  of  that  dreadful  period  mentioned 
on  page  8th  [see  ante,  p.  37,  Prefatory  Note  to 
A  Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of  Death],  and,  though 
the  weather  has  brightened  up  a  little  with 
me,  yet  there  has  always  been,  since,  a  '  tem- 
pest brewing  round  me  in  the  grim  sky  '  of 
futurity,  which  I  pretty  plainly  see  will,  some 
time  or  other,  perhaps  ere  long,  overwhelm 
me,  and  drive  me  into  some  doleful  dell  to  pine 
in  solitary,  squalid  wi-etcbedness.'  (R.  B.) 
He  also  states  it  to  have  been  written  ' '  in 
imitation  of  an  old  Scotch  song  well  known 
among  the  country  ingle  sides,"  and  he  sets 
down  one  stanza  thereof  to  mark  the  "  debt  I 
owe  to  the  author,  as  the  repeating  of  that 
verse  has  lighted  up  my  flame  a  thousand 
times :  " 

"  When  clouds  in  skiee  do  come  together 
To  hide  the  briglitness  of  the  sun, 
There  will  surely  be  some  pleasant  weather 
When  a'  the  storms  are  past  and  gone." 

I 

Tho'  fickle  Fortune  has  deceived  me 

(She  promis'd  fair,  and  perform'd  but  ill), 

Of  mistress,  friends,  and  wealth  bereaved 
me, 
Yet  I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 


I  '11  act  with  prudence  as  far  as  I  'm  able ; 

But  if  success  I  must  never  find. 
Then   come,  Misfortune,  I   bid  thee  wel- 
come — 

1 11  meet  thee  with  an  undaunted  mind  ! 


RAGING   FORTUNE 

Inscribed  in  the  First  Common  Place  Book, 

September,  1785,  next  to  Tho'  Fickle  Fortune. 

'Twas  at  the  same  time  I  set  about  com- 


posing an  air  in  the  old  Scotch  style.  I  am 
not  musical  scholar  enough  to  prick  down  my 
tune  properly,  so  it  can  never  see  the  light ; 
and  perhaps  't  is  no  great  matter,  but  the  fol- 
lowing were  the  verses  I  composed  to  suit  it. 
.  .  .  The  time  consisted  of  three  parts,  so  that 
the  above  verses  just  went  through  the  whole 
Air."     (R.  B.) 


O,  RAGING  Fortune's  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low  ! 

O,  raging  Fortune's  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low  ! 


My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green, 
My  blossom  sweet  did  blow; 

The  dew  fell  fresh,  the  sun  rose  mild, 
And  made  my  branches  grow. 

ni 

But  luckless  Fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low  ! 
But  luckless  Fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low  ! 


MY   FATHER   WAS   A   FARMER 

"  The  following  song  is  a  wild  rhapsody, 
miserably  deficient  in  versification  ;  but  as  the 
sentiments  are  the  genuine  feelings  of  my 
heart,  for  that  reason  1  have  a  particular  plea- 
sure in  conning  it  over."  (R.  B.)  It  faintly 
resembles  a  song  in  an  old  chap  at  Abbots- 
ford,  ify  Father  was  a  Farmer,  and  a  Farmer's 
Son  am  J. 


My  father  was  a  farmer  upon  the  Carrick 

border,  O, 
And  carefully  he  bred  me  in  decency  and 

order,  O. 
He  bade  me   act  a  manly  part,  though  I 

had  ne'er  a  farthing,  O, 
For   without  an   honest,    manly   heart   no 

man  was  worth  regarding,  O. 

n 

Then  out  into  the  world  my  course  I  did 

determine,  O: 
Tho'  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish,  yet  to  be 

great  was  charming,  O. 


THE   MAUCHLINE  LADY 


303 


My  talents  they  were   not  the  worst,  nor 

yet  my  education,  O  — 
Resolv'd  was  I  at  least  to  try  to  mend  my 

situation,  O. 

Ill 

In  many  a  way  and  vain  essay  I  courted 

Fortune's  favour,  O: 
Some  cause  unseen  still  stept  between  to 

frustrate  each  endeavour,  O. 
Sometimes    by   foes    I    was     o'erpower'd, 

sometimes  by  friends  forsaken,  O, 
And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top,  I  still 

was  worst  mistaken,  O. 

IV 

Then  sore  harass'd,  and  tir'd  at  last  with 

Fortune's  vain  delusion,  O, 
I  dropt  my  schemes  like  idle  dreams,  and 

came  to  this  conclusion,  O:  — 
The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid;  its 

good  or  ill  untried,  O, 
But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  pow'r,  and 

so  I  would  enjoy  it,  O. 


No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I,  nor 

person  to  befriend  me,  O ; 
So  I  must  toil,  and  sweat,  and  broil,  and 

labour  to  sustain  me,  O  ! 
To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my 

father  bred  me  early,  O: 
For  one,   he  said,  to   labour   bred   was  a 

match  for  Fortune  fairly,  O. 


Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor,  thro' 
life  I  'm  doom'd  to  wander,  O, 

Till  down  my  weary  bones  I  lay  in  ever- 
lasting slumber,  O. 

No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate'er  might 
breed  me  pain  or  sorrow,  O, 

I  live  to-day  as  well 's  I  may,  regardless 
of  to-morrow,  0  ! 

VII 

But,  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well  as  a  mon- 
arch in  a  palace,  O, 

Tho'  Fortune's  frown  still  hunts  me  down, 
with  all  her  wonted  malice,  O: 

I  make  indeed  my  daily  bread,  but  ne'er 
can  make  it  farther,  O, 

But,  as  daily  bread  is  all  I  need,  I  do  not 
much  regard  her,  O. 


VIII 

When  sometimes  by  my  labour  I  earn  a 

little  money,  O, 
Some  unforeseen  misfortune   comes   gen'- 

rally  upon  me,  O: 
^Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect,  or  my 

good-natur'd  folly,  O  — 
But,  come  what  %vill,  I  've  sworn  it  still, 

I  '11  ne'er  be  melancholy,  O. 

IX 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power  with 
unremitting  ardour,  O, 

The  more  in  this  you  look  for  bliss,  you 
leave  your  view  the  farther,  O. 

Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts,  or  na- 
tions to  adore  you,  O, 

A  cheerful,  honest-hearted  clown  I  will 
prefer  before  you,  O  ! 


O,   LEAVE   NOVELS 


O,  LEAVE  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles  — 
Ye  're  safer  at  your  spinning-wheel  ! 

Such  witching  books  are  baited  hooks 
For  rakish  rooks  like  Rob  Mossgiel. 


Your  fine  Tom  Jones  and  Grandisons 
They  make  your  youthful  fancies  reel ! 

They  heat  your  brains,  and  fire  your  veins, 
Aid  then  you  're  prey  for  Rob  Mossgiel. 

Ill 

Beware  a  tongue  that 's  smoothly  hung, 
A  heart  that  warmly  seems  to  feel ! 

That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part, — 
'T  is  rakish  art  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 

IV 

The  frank  address,  the  soft  caress 

Are  worse  than  poisoned  darts  of  steel: 

The  frank  address  and  politesse 
Are  all  finesse  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 


THE   MAUCHLINE   LADY 

The    Manchline    lady   was  no   doubt   Jean 
Armour. 


$04 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 
My  inind  it  was  na  steady: 

Where'er  I  gaed,  where'er  I  rade, 
A  mistress  still  I  had  ay. 


But  when  I  came  roun'  by  Mauchline  toon, 

Not  dreadin  anybody, 
My  heart  was  caught,  before  I  thought, 

And  by  a  Mauchline  lady. 


ONE  NIGHT  AS  I   DID  WANDER 

One  night  as  I  did  wander, 

When  corn  begins  to  shoot, 
I  sat  me  down  to  ponder 

Upon  an  auld  tree-root: 
Auld  Ayr  ran  by  before  me. 

And  bicker'd  to  the  seas; 
A  cushat  crooded  o'er  me, 

That  echoed  through  the  trees. 


THERE  WAS   A   LAD 


CHORUS 

Robin  was  a  rovin  boy, 

Rantin,  rovin,  rantin,  rovin, 

Robin  was  a  rovin  boy, 
Rantin,  rovin  Robin  ! 


TlTERE  was  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyle, 
But  whatna  day  o'  whatna  style, 
I  doubt  it 's  hardly  worth  the  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi'  Robin. 


Our  monarch's  hindmost  year  but  ane 
Was  five  and  twenty  days  begun 
'T  was  then  a  blast  o'  Janwar'  win' 
Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin. 

Ill 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof, 

Quo'  scho  :  —  "  Wha   lives   will    see    the 

proof, 
This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  coof  : 
I  think  we  '11  ca'  him  Robin. 


"  He  '11  hae  misfortunes  great  an'  sma', 
But  ay  a  heart  aboon  them  a'. 
He  '11  be  a  credit  till  us  a': 
We  '11  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin  I 

V 

"  But  sure  as  three  times  three  mak  nine, 
I  see  by  ilka  score  and  line. 
This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin'. 
So  leeze  me  on  thee,  Robin  ! 


"  Guid  faith,"  quo'   scho,  "  I   doubt  you, 

stir. 
Ye  gar  the  lasses  lie  aspar; 
But  twenty  fauts  ye  may  hae  waur  — 
So  blessins  on  thee,  Robin  !  " 

CHORUS 

Robin  was  a  rovin  boy, 

Rantin,  rovin,  rantin,  rovin, 

Robin  was  a  rovin  boy, 
Rantin,  rovin  Robin  I 


WILL   YE    GO    TO    THE    INDIES, 

MY    MARY 

Sent  to  Thomson  in  October,  1792,  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  Will  Ye  Gang  to  the  Ewe-bughts, 
Marion,  which  Thomson,  like  the  pedant  he 
was,  could  not  approve.  "In  my  very  early 
years,  when  I  was  thinking  of  going  to  the 
West  Indies,  I  took  the  following  farewell  of  a 
dear  girl.  It  is  quite  trifling,  and  has  nothing 
of  the  merits  of  Ewe-bughts,  but  it  will  fiU 
up  this  page."  Thomson  replied  that  he  did 
not  mean  to  supplant  The  Ewe-bughts,  and 
that  what  he  wanted  Bums  to  do  was  to  try 
his  "hand  on  some  of  the  inferior  stanzas." 
Bums  took  not  the  hint ;  nor  did  Thomson 
accept  his  song :  "  This  is  a  very  poor  song, 
which  I  do  not  mean  to  include  in  my  CoUec- 
tion."  For  Mary  Campbell,  the  supposed 
heroine  (though  this  is  at  least  doubtful),  see 
ante,  p.  204,  Prefatory  Note  to  My  Highland 
Lassie,  O. 


Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  th'  Atlantic  roar  ? 


THE   LASS   O'   BALLOCHMYLE 


305 


0,  sweet  grows  the  lime  and  the  orange, 

And  the  apple  on  the  pine; 
But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  Indies 

Can  never  equal  thine. 


Ill 


I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 
I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  true, 

4nd  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me, 
When  I  forget  my  vow  ! 


IV 


O,  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand  ! 

O,  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand  ! 


We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join; 
And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us  ! 

The  hour  and  the  moment  o'  time  ! 


HER   FLOWING    LOCKS 


Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  wing, 
Adown  her  neck  and  bosom  hing. 
How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling, 
And  round  that  neck  entwine  her  ! 


Her  lips  are  roses  wat  wi'  dew  — 
O,  what  a  feast,  her  bonie  mou  ! 
Her  cheeks  a  mair  celestial  hue, 
A  crimson  stiU  diviner  ! 


THE    LASS    O'   BALLOCHMYLE 

Sent  to  Miss  Wilhelminia  Alexander  in  a 
letter  of  18th  November,  1786  :  "  The  enclosed 
song  was  the  work  of  my  return  home,  and 
perhaps  but  poorly  answers  what  might  have 
been  expected  from  such  a  scene.  I  am  going 
to  print  a  second  edition  of  my  Poems,  but  can- 
not insert  those  verses  without  your  permis- 
sion." The  lady  took  no  notice  of  the  request ; 
but  a  MS.  copy  sets  forth  this  note  :  ''  The 
above  song  cannot  be  published  without  the 
eonsent  of  the  lady,  which  I  have  desired  a 


common  friend  to  ask."  In  all  probability 
this  was  the  copy  submitted  to  the  "  jury  of 
literati  "  in  Edinburgh.  It  went  impublished 
—  not  because  the  writer  could  not  get  Miss 
Alexander's  consent,  but  because  it  and  a 
song  on  Miss  Peggy  Kennedy  ( Young  Peggy, 
ante,  p.  201)  were  "found  defamatory  libels 
against  the  fastidious  powers  of  Poesy  and 
Taste."  In  Polyhymnia  it  is  stated  to  ''  have 
been  composed  by  Robert  Burns,  from  the 
emotions  of  gratitude  and  esteem  which  he 
felt  for  the  worthy  family,  for  the  kindness 
and  attention  they  had  shewn  him  "  — a  rather 
too  Platonic  theory  of  its  origin. 

Miss  Wilhelminia  Alexander  was  the  sister 
of  Claud  Alexander,  who  succeeded  the  White- 
foords  in  Ballochmyle.  She  is  referred  to  in 
one  of  the  suppressed  stanzas  of  The  Vision  : 

"  While  lovely  Wilhelminia  warms 
The  coldest  heart." 

Later  in  life  she  set  a  higher  price  than  erst 
upon  the  compliment  designed  in  Bums's 
verses.     She  died  unmarried,  as  late  as  1843. 


'T  WAS  even  :  the  dewy  fields  were  green, 

On  every  blade  the  pearls  hang, 
The  zephyr  wanton'd  round  the  bean. 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang. 

In  ev'ry  glen  the  mavis  sang. 
All  nature  list'ning  seem'd  the  while, 

Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rang 
Amang  the  braes  o'  Ballochmyle. 


With  careless  step  I  onward  stray'd, 

My  heart  rejoic'd  in  Nature's  joy, 
When,  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 

A  maiden  fair  I  chanc'd  to  spy. 

Her  look  was  like  the  Morning's  eye, 
Her  air  like  Nature's  vernal  smile. 

Perfection  whisper'd,  passing  by:  — 
"  Behold  the  lass  of  Ballochmyle  !  " 


Fair  is  the  mom  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  autumn  mild, 
When  roving  thro'  the  garden  gay. 

Or  wand'ring  in  the  lonely  wild; 

But  woman,  Nature's  darling  child  — 
There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile  ! 

Even  there  her  other  works  are  foil'd 
By  the  bonie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 


O,  had  she  been  a  country  maid. 
And  I  the  happy  country  swain. 


3o6 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


Tho'  shelter'd  in  the  lowest  shed 
That  ever  rose  on  Scotia's  plain, 
Thro'  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toU, 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 

The  bonie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle  ! 


Then  Pride  might  climb  the  slipp'ry  steep, 

Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine. 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 

Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine  ! 

Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 
To  tend  the  flocks  or  till  the  soU, 

And  ev'ry  day  have  joys  divine 
With  the  bonie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 


THE   NIGHT   WAS    STILL 

The  MS.  was  given  to  one  of  the  daughters 
of  Dr.  Lawrie  of  Newmilns,  and  commemo- 
rates a  dance  —  when  Bums  for  the  first  time 
heard  the  spinet  —  in  the  manse  of  Newmilns 
on  the  banks  of  Irvine.  (See  ante,  p.  70,  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  Prayer  :  O  Thou  Dread  Power.) 


The  night  was  still,  and  o'er  the  lull 
The  moon  shone  on  the  castle  wa'. 

The  mavis  sang,  while  dew-drops  hang 
Around  her  on  the  castle  wa': 


Sae  merrily  they  danc'd  the  ring 
Frae  eenin'  till  the  cock  did  craw. 

And  ay  the  o'erword  o'  the  spring 

Was:  —  "  Irvine's  bairns  are  bonie  a' ! " 


MASONIC   SONG 

Said  to  have  been  recited  by  Bums  at  his 
admission  as  an  honorary  member  of  the  Kil- 
winning St.  John's  Lodge,  Kilmarnock.  26th 
October,  1786.  "Willie"  was  Major  William 
Parker,  Grand  Master.  (See  ante,  p.  139,  Pre- 
fatory Note  to  To  Hugh  Parker.) 


Ye  sons  of  old  Killie,  assembled  by  Willie 
To  follow  the  noble  vocation, 


Your  thrifty  old  mother  has  scarce  such 
another 
To  sit  in  that  honoured  station  ! 
I  've  little  to  say,  but  only  to  pray 

(As  praying 's  the  ton  of  your  fashioil). 
A  prayer  from  the  Muse  you  well  may  ex- 
cuse 
('T  is  seldom  her  favourite  passion) :  — 


"  Ye  Powers  who  preside  o'er  the  wind  and 

the  tide. 
Who  marked  each  element's  border. 
Who   formed  this  frame  with  beneficent 
aim, 
Whose  sovereign  statute  is  order, 
Within  this  dear  mansion  may  wayward 
Contention 
Or  withered  Envy  ne'er  enter  ! 
May  Secrecy  round  be  the  mystical  bound, 
And  brotherly  Love  be  the  centre  ! " 


THE   BONIE   MOOR-HEN 

CHORUS 

I  rede  you,  beware  at  the  banting,  young 

men  ! 
I  rede  you,  beware  at  the  hunting,  young 

men  ! 
Take   some  on  the  wing,  and  some  as 

they  spring. 
But  cannily  steal  on  a  bonie  moor-hen. 


The  heather  was  blooming,  the  meadows 
were  mawn. 

Our  lads  gaed  a-hunting  ae  day  at  the 
dawn. 

O'er  moors  and  o'er  mosses  and  monie  a 
glen: 

At  length  they  discovered  a  bonie  moor- 
hen. 


Sweet-brushing  the  dew  from  the  brown 

heather  bells, 
Her  colours  betray'd   her  on  yon  mossy 

fells  ! 
Her  plumage   outlustred  the  pride  o'  the 

spring, 
And  O,  as  she  wanton'd  sae  gay  on  the 

wing. 


THE   BONIE   LASS   OF  ALBANIE 


307 


Auld  Phcfibus  himsel',  as  he  peeped  o'er 

the  hill, 
In  spite  at  her  plumage  he  tryfed  his  skill: 
He  level'd  his  rays  where  she  bask'd   on 

the  brae  — 
His  rays   were  outshone,  and  but  mark'd 

where  she  lay  ! 

IV 

They  hunted  the  valley,  they  hunted  the 

hill, 
The  best  of  our  lads  wi'  the  best  o'  their 

skill; 
But  still  as  the  fairest  she  sat  in  their  sight, 
Then,  whirr  !  she  was  over,  a  mile  at  a  flight. 

CHORUS 

I  rede  you,  beware  at  the  hunting,  young 

men  ! 
I  rede  you,  beware  at  the  hunting,  young 

men  I 
Take  some   on   the  wing,  and  some  as 

they  spring. 
But  cannily  steal  on  a  bonie  moor-hen. 


HERE'S   A   BOTTLE 

There  's  nana  that 's  blest  of  human  kind 
But  the  cheerful  and  the  gay,  man. 

Gilbert  Bums  expressed  to  Cromek  his 
doubts  of  Robert's  authorship ;  but  he  may 
have  been  influenced  by  a  desire  to  disassociate 
his  brother  from  the  sentiment  of  the  song. 
In  any  case  it  was  possibly  suggested  by  The 
Bottle  and  Friend,  in  the  Damon  and  Phillis 
Garland,  included  in  the  Bell  Collection  at 
Abbotsford : 

"  Bright  glory  is  a  trifle  and  so  is  ambition, 
I  despise  a  false  heart  and  a  lofty  condition, 
For  pride  is  a  foUy,  for  it  I  '11  not  contend, 
But  I  wiU  enjoy  my  bottle  and  friend  : 
In  a  little  close  room 

So  neat  and  so  trim, 
O  there  I  will  enjoy 
My  bottle  and  friend,"  etc. 


Here  's  a  bottle  and  an  honest  man  ! 

What  wad  ye  wish  for  mair,  man  ? 
Wha  kens,  before  his  life  may  end. 

What  his  share  may  be  o'  care,  man  ? 


Then  catch  the  moments  as  they  fly, 
And  use  them  as  ye  ought,  man  ! 

Believe  me,  Happiness  is  shy. 

And  comes  not  ay  when  sought,  man ! 


THE    BONIE    LASS    OF    ALBANIE 

Charlotte  Stuart,  daughter  of  Charles  Ed- 
ward, the  "Young  Pretender,"  by  Clementina 
Walkinshaw,  was  baptized  29th  October,  1753 
{Memoire  in  the  Minist^re  des  Affaires  Etran- 
g^res,  for  an  extract  from  which  we  are  indebted 
to  Mr.  Andrew  Lang).  In  the  register  of  bap- 
tisms at  Li^ge,  the  child  is  entered  as  the 
daughter  of  D.  Johnson  and  the  noble  dame 
Charlotte  Pitt ;  and  there  is  other  clear  evi- 
dence that,  though  at  this  time  Charles  treated 
Miss  Walkinshaw  as  his  wife,  she  neither  was 
married  to  him  nor  supposed  herself  to  be  his 
wife.  After  Charles's  separation  from  his 
wife,  the  Countess  of  Albany,  he  sent  for  his 
illegitimate  daughter  Charlotte,  who  abode 
with  him  till  his  death,  30th  January,  1788. 
In  1784  he  made  out  letters  of  legitimation, 
and  these  were  confirmed  by  the  Parlement  of 
Paris,  6th  December,  1787,  when  she  took  the 
style  of  Duchess  of  Albany.  But  the  legiti- 
mation did  not  imply  (as  was  supposed  at  the 
time  in  England,  and  as,  of  course,  was  credited 
by  Bums)  that  Miss  Walkinshaw  had  been 
married  to  the  Prince,  but  rather  that  Miss 
Walkinshaw  had  not.  She  died  soon  after  her 
father. 


My  heart  is  wae,  and  unco  wae. 
To  think  upon  the  raging  sea. 

That  roars  between  her  gardens  green 
An'  the  bonie  lass  of  Albanie. 


This  noble  maid  's  of  royal  blood. 
That  ruled  Albion's  kingdoms  three; 

But  O,  alas  for  her  bonie  face  ! 

They  hae  wranged  the  lass  of  Albanie. 

Ill 

In  the  rolling  tide  of  spreading  Clyde 
There  sits  an  isle  of  high  degree. 

And  a  town  of  fame,  whose  princely  name 
Should  srrace  the  lass  of  Albanie. 


3o8 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


IV 


But  there  is  a  youth,  a  witless  youth, 

That  fills  the  place  where  she  should  be; 

We  '11  seud  him  o'er  to  his  native  shore, 
And  bring  our  ain  sweet  Albauie  ! 


Alas  the  day,  and  woe  the  day  ! 

A  false  usurper  wan  the  gree, 
Who  now  commands  the  towers  and  lands, 

The  royal  right  of  Albanie. 


We  '11  daily  pray,  we  '11  nightly  pray. 
On  bended  knees  most  fervently, 

That  the  time  may  come,  with  pipe  and 
drum 
We  '11  welcome  hame  fair  Albanie. 


AMANG   THE   TREES 

Written  in  honour  of  Niel  Gow  (1727-1807), 
the  famous  fiddler,  whom  Bums  met  during 
his  Northern  tour  in  1787. 


Amang  the  trees,  where  humming  bees 

At  buds  and  flowers  were  hinging,  O, 
Auld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone. 

And  to  her  pipe  was  singing,  O. 
'T  was    Pibroch,    Sang,    Strathspeys    and 
Reels  — 

She  dirl'd  them  afif  fu'  clearly,  O, 
When  there  cam'  a  yell  o'  foreign  squeels. 

That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,  O  ! 


Their  capon  craws  an'  queer  "  ha,  ha's," 

They  made  our  lugs  grow  eerie,  O. 
The  hungry  bike  did  scrape  and  fyke. 

Till  we  were  wae  and  weary,  O. 
But  a  royal  ghaist,  wha  ance  was  cas'd 

A  prisoner  aughteen  year  awa, 
He  fir'd  a  Fiddler  in  the  North, 

That  dang  them  tapsalteerie,  0  ! 


THE    CHEVALIER'S    LAMENT 

"Yesterday,  my  dear  sir,  as  I  was  riding 
thro'  a  track  of  melancholy,  joyless  muirs.  be- 
tween Galloway  and  Ayrshire,  it  being   Sun- 


day, I  turned  my  thoughts  to  psalms  and 
hymns,  and  spiritual  songs,  and  your  favourite 
air,  Capt.  O'Kean,  coming  at  length  in  my 
head,  I  tried  these  words  to  it.  You  will  see 
that  the  first  part  of  the  tune  must  be  re- 
peated." (Burns  to  Cleghom,  31st  March, 
1788.)  Only  stanza  i.  was  sent  to  Cleghom  at 
that  time.  "  If  I  could  hit  on  another  stanza 
equal  to  The  Small  Birds  Rejoice,  1  do  myself 
honestly  avow  that  I  think  it  a  very  superior 
song."  (R.  B.  to  Thomson,  1st  April,  1793.) 
He  sent  no  more  to  Thomson  either. 


The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves 
returning, 
The   murmuring   streamlet   winds  clear 
thro'  the  vale, 
The   primroses   blow  in   the  dews  of   the 
morning, 
And  wild  scatter'd  cowslips  bedeck  the 
green  dale: 
But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what 

can  seem  fair, 
When     the     lingering    moments    are 
number'd  by  care  ? 

No  flow'rs  gaily  springing. 
Nor  birds  sweetly  singing, 
Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless 
despair ! 

II 
The  deed  that  I  dar'd,  could  it  merit  their 
malice, 
A   king   and   a  father   to   place  on   his 
throne  ? 
His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are 
those  valleys. 
Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  tho' 
I  can  find  none  ! 
But     't  is     not     my    suff'rings     thus 

wretched,  forlorn  — 
My  brave   gallant   friends,  'tis   your 
ruin  I  mourn  ! 

Your  faith  prov'd  so  loyal 
In  hot  bloody  trial, 
Alas  !  can  I  make  it  no  better  return  ? 


YESTREEN    I    HAD    A    PINT   O' 
WINE 

The  Anna  of  the  song  was  Anna  Park,  niece 
of  Mrs.  Hyslop  of  the  Globe  Tavern.  Dumfries. 
She  bore  a  daughter  to  Burns,  31st  March, 
1791,  which  was  first  sent  to  Mossgiel,  and  af- 


SWEET   ARE  THE  BANKS 


309 


terwards  fostered  by  Mrs.  Burns  along  with 
her  baby,  William  Nicol,  born  ten  days  after 
it.  According-  to  Chambers  it  was  Mrs.  Burns  s 
plain  duty  so  to  do,  inasmuch  as  if  she  had  n't 
gone  to  visit  relatives  in  Ayrshire,  and  thus 
provided  her  spouse  with  both  an  opportunity 
and  an  excuse,  the  child  would  never  have  been 
begotten.  Be  this  as  it  may,  nothing  is  known 
of  the  mother's  after-life.  Indeed,  she  is  said 
by  some  to  have  died  in  childbed  of  this  girl. 

The  song  was  sent  to  Thomson  in  April, 
1793  :  "  Shepherds,  I  Have  Lost  My  Love  is  to 
me  a  heavenly  air  —  what  would  you  think  of 
a  set  of  Scots  verses  to  it  ?  I  have  made  one,  a 
good  while  ago,  which  I  think  is  the  best  love 
song  I  ever  composed  in  my  life,  but  in  its 
original  state  is  not  quite  a  lady's  song.  I  en- 
close the  original,  which  please  present  with 
my  best  compliments  to  Mr.  Erskine,  and  I 
also  enclose  an  altered  not  amended  copy  for 
you,  if  you  choose  to  set  the  tune  to  it,  and  let 
the  Irish  verses  follow."     (R.  B.) 


Yestreex  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine 
A  place  where  body  saw  na; 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  o'  mine 
The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 


The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness 

Rejoicing  o'er  his  manna 
Was  naething  to  my  hiney  bliss 

Upon  the  lips  of  Anna  ! 

Ill 

Ye  monarchs  take  the  East  and  West 

Frae  Indus  to  Savannah  : 
Gie  me  within  my  straining  grasp 

The  melting  form  of  Anna  ! 


There  I  '11  despise  Imperial  charms, 

An  Empress  or  Sultana, 
While  dying  raptures  in  her  arms 

I  give  and  take  wi'  Anna  ! 


Awa,  thoii  flaunting  God  of  Day  ! 

Awa,  thou  pale  Diana  ! 
Ilk  Star,  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray, 

When  I  'm  to  meet  my  Anna  ! 


Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  Night 
(Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars,  withdrawn  a'), 


And  bring  an  Angel-pen  to  write 
My  transports  with  my  Anna  ! 


POSTSCRIPT 


The  Kirk  an'  State  may  join,  and  tell 
To  do  sic  things  I  maunna: 

The  Kirk  an'  State  may  gae  to  Hell, 
And  I  '11  gae  to  my  Anna. 


She  is  the  sunshine  o'  my  e'e, 
To  live  but  her  I  canna: 

Had  I  on  earth  but  wishes  three, 
The  first  should  be  my  Anna. 


SWEET   ARE   THE    BANKS 

The  first  set  of  a  song  —  of  which  the  sec- 
ond is  Ye  Flowery  Banks  (immediately  follow- 
ing) while  the  third  —  which,  being  the  worst, 
is  naturally  the  most  popular  —  The  Hanks  0' 
Doon,  was  published  in  Johnson's  Museum  (see 
ante,  p.  243).  It  was  sent  in  a  letter  to  Alex- 
ander Cunningham,  11th  March,  1791  :  "  My 
song  is  intended  to  sing  to  a  Strathspey  reel  of 
which  I  am  very  fond,  called  in  Cumming's 
collection  of  Strathspeys,  Ballendaloch's  Heel ; 
and  in  other  collections  that  I  have  met  with 
it  is  known  by  the  name  of  Camdelmore.  It 
takes  three  stanzas  of  foiu"  lines  each  to  go 
through  the  whole  tune."     (R.  B.) 


Sweet  are  the  banks,  the  banks  o'  Doon, 

The  spreading  flowers  are  fair, 
And  everything  is  blj'the  and  glad, 

But  I  am  fu'  o'  care. 
Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ! 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

AVhen  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 
Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate, 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate  ! 


Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon, 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine. 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve. 
And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 


3IO 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Upon  its  thorny  tree, 
But  my  fause  lover  staw  my  rose, 

And  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Upon  a  morn  in  June, 
And  sae  I  flourish'd  on  the  morn. 

And  sae  was  pu'd  or  noon. 


YE    FLOWERY   BANKS 

The  second  set  of  Sweet  are  the  Banks.  Sent 
in  an  undated  letter  —  probably  of  March, 
1791  —to  John  Ballantine  of  Ayr:  "While 
here  I  sit,  sad  and  solitary,  by  the  side  of  a 
fire  in  a  little  country  inn,  and  drying  my  wet 
clothes,  in  pops  a  poor  fellow  of  a  sodger,  and 
tells  me  he  is  going  to  Ayr.  By  heavens  !  say 
I  to  myself,  with  a  tide  of  good  spirits  which 
the  magic  of  that  sound  '  Auld  Toon  of  Ayr  ' 
conjured  up,  I  will  send  my  last  song  to  Sir. 
Ballantine."     (R.  B.) 


Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair  ? 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ? 


Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough: 
Tliou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true  ! 


Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird. 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate: 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate  ! 

IV 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 


Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 
Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree, 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose, 
But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


CALEDONIA 


There  was  on  a  time,  but  old  Time  was 
then  young, 
That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  her 
line. 
From  some  of  your  northern  deities  sprung 
(Who  knows  not  that  brave  Caledonia's 
divine  ?). 
From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  do- 
main, 
To  hunt,  or  to  pasture,  or  do  what  she 
would. 
Her  heav'nly  relations  there  fix^d  her  reign. 
And  pledged  her  their  godheads  to  war- 
rant it  good. 


A  lambkin  in  peace  but  a  lion  in  war, 
The  pride   of   her   kindred  the  heroine 
grew. 
Her   grandsire,    old     Odin,    triumphantly 
swore:  — 
"  Whoe'er   shall   provoke   thee,   th'  en- 
counter shall  rue  !  " 
With  tillage  or  pasture  at  times  she  would 
sport. 
To   feed   her   fair   flocks  by  her   green 
rustling  corn; 
But   chiefly   the  woods  were  her  fav'rite 
resort. 
Her  darling  amusement  the  hounds  and 
the  horn. 

Ill 

Long   quiet  she   reign'd,   till  thitherward 
steers 
A   flight  of    bold  eagles   from   Adria's 
strand. 
Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years, 
They  darken'd  the   air,  and  they  plun- 
der'd  the  land. 
Their   pounces   were   murder,  and   horror 
their  cry; 
They  'd  conquer'd  and  ravag'd  a  world 
beside. 
She  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows  let  fly  — 
The  daring  invaders,  they  fled  or  they 
died! 

IV 

The  Cameleon-Savage  disturb' d  her  repose, 
With    tumult,  disquiet,    rebellion,   and 
strife. 


WHEN   FIRST   I    SAW 


311 


Provok'd  beyond  bearing,  at  last  she  arose, 
And  robbed  him  at  once  of  his  hopes  and 
his  life. 
The  Anglian  Lion,  the  terror  of  France, 
Oft,  prowling,  ensanguin'd  the  Tweed's 
silver  flood. 
But,  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance. 
He  learned  to   fear  in   his   own   native 
wood. 


The  fell  Harpy-Raven  took  wing  from  the 
north. 
The  scourge  of  the  seas,  and  the  dread 
of  the  shore; 
The  wild  Scandinavian  Boar  issued  forth 

To  wanton  in  carnage  and  wallow  in  gore ; 
O'er   countries   and   kingdoms   their   fury 
prevail'd. 
No   arts   could   appease  them,  no  arms 
could  repel; 
But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assail'd. 
As  Largs   well   can   witness,  and  Lon- 
cartie  tell. 

VI 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquer'd,  and 
free, 
Her  bright  course  of  glory  for  ever  shall 
run. 
For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be, 
I  '11  prove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  the 
sun:  — • 
Rectangle-triangle,  the  figure  we  '11  chuse ; 
The  upright  is  Chance,  and  old  Time  is 
the  base. 
But  brave  Caledonia  's  the  hypotheuuse; 
Then,  ergo,  she  '11  match  them,  and  match 
them  always  ! 


YOU  'RE   WELCOME,  WILLIE 
STEWART 

Originally  inscribed  on  a  crystal  tumbler, 
now  at  Abbotsford,  the  song  is  modelled  on 
the  same  Jacobitism  as  Lovely  Polly  Stewart. 
(See  ante,  p.  259.  See  also  ante,  p.  14('),  To 
William  Stewart.)  Stewart,  who  was  factor  at 
Closebum,  died  in  1812. 

CHORUS 

You  're  welcome,  Willie  Stewart ! 
You  're  welcome,  Willie  Stewart ! 


There  's   ne'er   a  flower  that  blooms  in 
May, 
That 's  half  sae  welcome 's  thou  art ! 


Come,  bumpers  high  !  express  your  joy  I 
Tlie  bowl  we  maun  renew  it  — 

The  tappet  hen,  gae  bring  her  ben, 
To  welcome  Willie  Stewart ! 


May  foes  be  strong,  and  friends  be  slack ! 

Ilk  action,  may  he  rue  it ! 
May  woman  on  him  turn  her  back, 

That  wrangs  thee,  Willie  Stewart ! 

CHORUS 

You  're  welcome,  WiUie  Stewart ! 

You  're  welcome,  Willie  Stewart ! 
There  's   ne'er   a  flower  that  blooms  in 
May, 

That 's  half  sae  welcome 's  thou  art ! 


WHEN    FIRST    I    SAW 

Chambers  states  that  the  heroine  was  Miss 
Jean  Jeffrey,  whom  Burns  celebrated  in  The 
Blue-eyed  Lassie  (see  ante,  p.  230,  Prefatory 
Note  to  The  Blue-eyed  Lassie).  But  the  song 
is  so  poor  that,  had  not  Alexander  Smith  (Edi- 
tion 1868)  collated  the  text  "  with  a  copy  in 
the  poet's  handwriting,"  we  should  have  classed 
it  with  the  "  Improbables." 

CHORUS 

She  's  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  sae  gay, 
She 's  aye  sae  blithe  and  cheerie. 

She  's  aye  sae  bonie,  blithe  and  gay, 
O,  gin  I  were  her  dearie  ! 


When  first  I  saw  fair  Jeanie's  face, 

I  couldna  tell  what  ail'd  me: 
My  heart  went  fluttering  pit-a-pat, 

My  een  they  almost  fail'd  me. 
She  's  aye  sae  neat,  sae  trim,  sae  tight. 

All  grace  does  round  her  hover  ! 
Ae  look  depriv'd  me  o'  my  heart, 

And  I  became  her  lover. 


Had  I  Dundas'a  whole  estate. 

Or  Hopetoun's  wealth  to  shine  in; 


312 


MISCELLANEOUS    SONGS 


Did  warlike  laurels  crown  my  brow, 
Or  humbler  bays  eutwiniug; 

I  'd  lay  them  a'  at  Jeanie's  feet, 
Could  I  but  hope  to  move  her, 

And,  prouder  than  a  belted  knight, 
I  'd  be  my  Jeanie's  lover. 


But  sair  I  fear  some  happier  swain 

Has  gain'd  my  Jeanie's  favour. 
If  so,  may  every  bliss  be  hers, 

Though  I  maun  never  have  her  ! 
But  gang  she  east,  or  gang  she  west, 

'T  wixt  Forth  and  Tweed  all  over. 
While  men  have  eyes,  or  ears,  or  taste. 

She  '11  always  find  a  lover. 

CHORUS 

She  's  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  sae  gay. 
She  's  aye  sae  blithe  and  eheerie, 

She  's  aye  sae  bonie,  blithe  and  gay, 
O,  gin  I  were  her  dearie  ! 


BEHOLD   THE  HOUR 


FIRST  SET 


Behold  the  hour,  the  boat,  arrive  ! 

My  dearest  Nancy,  O,  farewell ! 
Sever'd  frae  thee,  can  I  survive, 

Frae  thee  whom  I  hae  lov'd  sae  well  ? 


Endless  and  deep  shall  be  my  grief, 
Nae  ray  of  comfort  shall  I  see, 

But  this  most  precious,  dear  belief. 
That  thou  wilt  still  remember  me. 


Along  the  solitary  shore. 

Where  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry. 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I  '11  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye. 


"  Happy  thou  Indian  grove,"  I  '11  say, 
"  Where  now  my  Nancy's  path  shall  be  ! 

While  thro'  your  sweets  she  holds  her  way, 
O,  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ?  " 


HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  THEM 
THAT  'S  AWA 


Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa. 
Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa  ! 
And  wha  winua  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cause, 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa'  ! 
It 's  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise, 
It 's  guid  to  be  honest  and  true, 
It 's  guid  to  support  Caledonia's  cause 
And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 


Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa. 
Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa  ! 
Here  's  a  health  to  Charlie,  the  chief  o'  the 
clan, 
Altho'  that  his  band  be  sma' ! 
May  Liberty  meet  wi'  success. 

May  prudence  protect  her  frae  evil ! 

May  tyrants  and  Tyranny  tine  i'  the  mist 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  Devil ! 


Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa. 
Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa  ! 
Here  's  a  health  to  Tammie,  the  Norlan' 
laddie. 
That  lives  at  the  lug  o'  the  Law  ! 
Here  's  freedom  to  them  that  wad  read. 
Here's   freedom  to  them  that  would 
write  ! 
There 's   nane   ever   fear'd  that  the  truth 
should  be  heard. 
But  they  whom  the  truth  would  in- 
dite ! 


Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa, 
An'  here  's  to  them  that 's  awa  ! 
Here  's  to  Maitland  and  Wycombe  !     Let 
wha  does  na  like  'em 
Be  built  in  a  hole  in  the  wa'  ! 
Here  's  timmer  that 's  red  at  the  heart. 
Here  's  fruit  that  is  sound  at  the  core, 
And  may  he  that  wad  turn  the  buff  and 
blue  coat 
Be  turn'd  to  the  back  o'  the  door  ! 


Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa. 
Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa. 


PHILLIS   THE    FAIR 


3^3 


Here 's  Chieftain  M'Leod,  a  chieftain  worth 
gowd, 
Tho'  bred  amang  mountains  o'  snaw  ! 
Here  's  friends  on  baith  sides  o'  the  Firth, 
And  friends  on  baith  sides  o'  the  Tweed, 
And  wha  wad  betray  old  Albion's  right. 
May  they  never  eat  of  her  bread  ! 


AH,    CHLORIS 


Ah,  Chloris,  since  it  may  not  be 
That  thou  of  love  wilt  hear, 

If  from  the  lover  thou  maun  flee. 
Yet  let  the  friend  be  dear  ! 


Altho'  I  love  my  Chloris  mair 
Than  ever  tongue  could  tell. 

My  passion  I  will  ne'er  declare  • 
I  '11  say,  I  wish  thee  well. 


Tho'  a'  my  daily  care  thou  art. 
And  a'  my  nightly  dream, 

I  '11  hide  the  struggle  in  my  heart, 
And  say  it  is  esteem. 


PRETTY   PEG 


As  I  gaed  up  by  yon  gate-end, 
When  day  was  waxin  weary, 

Wha  did  I  meet  come  down  the  street 
But  pretty  Peg,  my  dearie  ? 


Her  air  so  sweet,  her  shape  complete, 
Wi'  nae  proportion  wanting  — 

The  Queen  of  Love  could  never  move 
Wi'  motion  mair  enchanting  ! 


With  linked  hands  we  took  the  sands 
Down  by  yon  winding  river; 

And  O  !  that  hour,  and  shady  bow'r, 
Can  I  forget  it  ?     Never  ! 


MEG    O'   THE    MILL 

SECOND    SET 

Sent  to  Thomson,  April,  179.3,  along  with 
There  Was  a  Lass.  '*  I  know  these  songs  are 
not  to  have  the  luck  to  please  you,  else  you 
might  be  welcome  to  them."  (R.  B.)  It  was 
written  for  Jackie  Hume's  Lament.  Thomson 
asked  him  to  write  another  song  to  this  air, 
but  he  replied:  "My  song,  Ken  Ye  What 
Meg  o'  the  Mill  Has  Gotten,  pleases  me  so  much 
that  I  camiot  try  my  hand  at  another  song  to 
the  same  air  ;  so  I  shall  not  attempt  it.  I 
know  you  will  laugh  at  this  ;  but  ilka  man 
wears  his  belt  his  ain  gait."  For  the  first  set 
see  ante,  p.  2(jS. 


O,  KEN  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  mill  has  gotten  ? 
An'  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  mill  has  gotten  ? 
She  's  gotten  a  coof  wi'  a  claute  o'  siller. 
And  broken  the  heart  o'  the  barley  miller  ! 


The   miller  was   strappin,  the  miller  was 

ruddy, 
A  heart  like  a  lord,  and  a  hue  like  a  lady. 
The  laird  was  a  widdifu',  bleerit  knurl  — 
She 's   left  the   guid  fellow,  and  taen  the 

churl ! 


The  miller,  he  hecht  her  a  heart  leal  and 

loving. 
The  laii'd  did  address  her  wi'  matter  more 

moving: 
A  fine  pacing-horse  wi'   a   clear,    chained 

bridle, 
A  whip  by  her  side,  and  a  bonie  side  saddle  ! 


O,  wae  on  the  siller  —  it  is  sae  prevailing  ! 
And  wae    on   the   love  that  is  fixed  on  a 

mailen  ! 
A  tocher's  nae  word  in  a  true  lover's  pari. 
But  gie  me  my  love  and  a  fig  for  the  warl ! 


PHILLIS    THE   FAIR 

Sent  to  Thomson,  August,  170o.  "  I  like- 
wise tried  my  hand  on  Robin  Adair,  and  you 
will  probably  think  with  little  success ;  but  it 


314 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


is  such  a  daiuued,  erampt,  out-of-the-way  mea- 
sure, that  I  despair  of  doing  anything  better 
to  it.  .  .  .  So  luucli  for  namby-pamby.  I  may, 
after  all,  try  my  hand  on  it  in  tScots  verse. 
There  I  always  find  myself  at  home."  Thom- 
son replied  that  he  would  be  glad  to  see  Burns 
"  give  Mobin  Adair  a  Scottish  dress,"  but  that 
"  Peter  "  was  furnishing  him  with  an  English 
suit. 

I 

While  larks  with  little  wing 

Faim'd  the  pure  air, 
Viewing  the  breathing  Spring, 

Forth  I  did  fare. 
Gay,  the  sun's  golden  eye 
Peep'd  o'er  the  mountains  high; 
"  Such  thy  bloom,"  did  I  cry  — 
"  PhUlis  the  fair  ! " 


In  each  bird's  careless  song, 

Glad,  I  did  share; 
While  yon  wild  flowers  among, 

Chance  led  me  there. 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day. 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray; 
"  Such  thy  bloom,"  did  I  say  — 
"  PhiUis  the  fair  ! " 


Down  in  a  shady  walk 
Doves  cooing  were; 

I  mark'd  the  cruel  hawk 
Caught  in  a  snare. 

So  kind  may  Fortune  be  ! 

Such  make  his  destiny. 

He  who  would  injure  thee, 
PhUlis  the  fair  ! 


O,  SAW  YE  MY  DEAR,  MY  PHILLY 


O,  SAW  ye  my  Dear,  my  Philly  ? 
O,  saw  ye  my  Dear,  my  Philly  ? 
She  's  down  i'  the  grove,  she  's  wi'  a  new 
love. 
She  winua  come  hame  to  her  Willy. 

II 

What  says  she  my  Dear,  my  Philly  ? 
What  says  she  my  Dear,  my  Philly  ? 
She  lets  thee  to  wit  she  has  thee  forgot. 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  Willy. 


O,  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Philly  ! 
O,  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Philly  ! 
As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou  's  fair, 
Thou 's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  Willy. 


'TWAS  NA  HER  BONIE  BLUE  E'E 


'TwAS  na  her  bonie  blue  e'e  was  my  ruin: 
Fair  tho'  she  be,  that  was  ne'er  my  undoin. 
'Twas  the  dear  smile  when  naebody  did 

mind  us, 
'T  was  the  bewitching,  sweet,  stoun  glance 

o'  kindness  ! 


Sair  do  I  fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 
Sair  do  I  fear  that  despair  maun  abide  me; 
But  tho'  fell  Fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever, 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for  ever. 

Ill 

Chloris,  I  'm  thine  wi'  a  passion  sineerest, 
And   thou   hast  plighted  me   love  o'  the 

dearest. 
And    thou  'rt    the   angel    that   never   can 

alter  — 
Sooner  the  sun  in  his  motion  would  falter  ! 


WHY,   WHY   TELL   THY   LOVER 


Why,  why  tell  thy  lover 
Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ? 
Why,  why  undeceive  him. 
And  give  all  his  hopes  the  lie  ? 


O,  why,  while  Fancy,  raptur'd,  slumbers, 
"  Chloris,  Chloris,"  all  the  theme, 
Why,  why  wouldst  thou,  cruel, 
Wake  thy  lover  from  his  dream  ? 


THE   PRIMROSE 

Sent  to  Thomson,  1793 :  "  For  Todlin  Hame 
take  the  following  old  English  song,  which  I 
dare  say  is  but  little  known."    (R.  B.)     "  N.B. 


ALTHO'    HE  HAS   LEFT  ME 


315 


I  have  altered  it  a  little."  (11.  B.)  [This  "  old 
English  song  "  is  Carew's  or  Herrick's  Ask  me 
why  I  send  you  here.] 


Dost  ask  me  why  I  seud  thee  here 
The  firstling  of  the  infant  year  : 
This  lovely  native  of  the  vale, 
That  hangs  so  pensive  and  so  pale  ? 


Look  on  its  bending  stalk,  so  weak, 
That,  each  way  yielding,  doth  not  break, 
And  see  how  aptly  it  reveals 
The  doubts  and  fears  a  lover  feels. 

in 

Look  on  its  leaves  of  yellow  hue 
Bepearl'd  thus  with  morning  dew. 
And  these  will  whisper  in  thine  ears:  — 
"The  sweets   of    loves    are    wash'd   with 
tears." 


O,  WERT  THOU   IN  THE  CAULD 
BLAST 

Written  during  his  last  illness  in  honour  of 
Jessie  Lewars  (see  ante,  p.  280,  Prefatory  Note 
to  Here  's  a  Health),  after  she  had  played  The 
Wren  to  him  on  the  piano. 


O,  WERT  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I  'd  shelter  thee,  I  'd  shelter  thee. 
Or  did  Misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw. 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 


Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae    black    and    bare,    sae    black    and 
bare. 
The  desert  were  a  Paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there. 
Or  were  I  monarch  of  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


INTERPOLATIONS 

[This  heading  is  given  to  a  few  verses  in- 
serted by  Burns  in  poems  written  by  his  con- 
temporaries.] 

YOUR   FRIENDSHIP 


Your  friendship  much  can  make  me  blest  — 

O,  why  that  bliss  destroy  ? 
Why  urge  the  only,  one  request 

You  know  I  will  deny  ? 


Your  thought,  if  Love  must  harbour  there, 

Conceal  it  in  that  thought, 
Nor  cause  me  from  my  bosom  tear 

The  very  friend  I  sought. 


FOR   THEE    IS    LAUGHING   NA- 
TURE 

For  thee  is  laughing  Nature  gay. 
For  thee  she  pours  the  vernal  day: 
For  me  in  vain  is  Nature  drest. 
While  Joy  's  a  stranger  to  my  breast. 


NO    COLD   APPROACH 

Inserted  in  the  song,  The  Tears  I  Shed,  by 
Miss  Cranstoun,  afterwards  the  second  wife  of 
Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  to  complete  the  last 
octave,  and  so  fit  it  for  the  tune  in  Johnson's 
Museum.  "  This  song  of  genius  was  composed 
by  a  Miss  Cranstoun.  It  wanted  four  lines  to 
make  all  the  stanzas  suit  the  music,  which  I 
added,  and  are  the  first  four  of  the  last  stanza." 
(R.  B.) 

No  cold  approach,  no  alter'd  mien. 
Just  what  would  make  suspicion  start. 

No  pause  the  dire  extremes  between  : 
He  made  me  blest  —  and  broke  my  heart. 


ALTHO'   HE   HAS    LEFT   ME 

Altho'  he  has  left  me  for  greed  o'  the 
siller, 
I  dinua  env^  him  the  gains  he  can  win: 


3i6 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


I  rather  wad  bear  a'  the  lade  o'  my  sor- 
row 
Than  ever  hae  acted  sae  faithless  to  him. 


LET    LOOVE   SPARKLE 

Let  loove  sparkle  in  her  e'e, 
Let  her  lo'e  nae  man  but  me: 
That 's  the  tocher  guid  I  prize, 
There  the  luver's  treasure  lies. 


AS    DOWN    THE   BURN 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 

And  thro'  the  flowery  dale, 
His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  ay  the  tale, 
With:  —  "Mary,  when  shall  we  return, 

Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ?  " 
Quoth  Mary :  —  "  Love,  I  like  the  burn, 

And  ay  shall  follow  you." 


IMPROBABLES 

In  our  judgment  few  of  [the  poems  that 
fellow]  can  justly  be  credited  to  Bums  ;  and  to 
consider  the  quality  of  nearly  all  is  to  perceive, 
and  very  clearly,  that,  partial  as  his  Editors 
were  to  the  use  of  such  epithets  as  "  God- 
gifted  "  and  '■  heaven-inspired "  and  the  like, 
there  was  no  rubbish  so  poor  but  they  found 
it  good  enough  to  father  on  the  god  of  their 
idolatry. 

ON    ROUGH    ROADS 

According  to  Scott  Douglas,  "it  is  very 
familiarly  quoted  in  Ayrshire,  as  a  stray  im- 
promptu of  Burns's."  But  he  says  not  from 
whom  he  got  it,  and  an  impromptu  which  had 
lived  for  ninety  years  without  getting  written 
or  printed  —  fa  donne  furieusement  a  penser  ! 

I  'm  now  arriv'd  —  thanks  to  the  Gods  !  — 

Through  pathways  rough  and  muddy: 
A  certain  sign  that  makin'  roads 

Is  no  this  people's  study. 
Yet,  though  I  'm  no  wi'  scripture  cramm'd, 

I  'm  sure  the  Bible  says 
That  heedless  sinners  shall  be  damn'd. 

Unless  they  mend  their  ways. 


ELEGY   ON    STELLA 

Inscribed  in  the  Second  Common  Place 
Book :  "  This  poem  is  the  work  of  some  hap- 
less son  of  the  Muses  who  deserved  a  better 
fate.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  '  the  voice 
of  Cona '  in  his  solitary,  mournful  notes ; 
and  had  the  sentiments  been  clothed  in  Shen- 
stone's  language,  they  would  have  been  no 
discredit  to  that  elegant  poet."  (R.  B.)  He 
sent  a  copy  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  in  a  letter  of  7th 
July,  ITS!*,  in  which  he  said  that  he  had  met 
the  Elegy  in  ms.,  and  marked  the  passages 
which  struck  him  most.  These  are  stanzas  i. 
iv.  xiii.  xiv.  (last  two  lines)  xvii.  xviii.  and 
xix.  ;  and  it  is  worth  noting  that  he  does  not 
include  with  them  stanza  xv.,  stanza  xvi.,  or 
stanza  xx. 

The  theory  of  Scott  Douglas  and  others, 
that  the  verses  were  suggested  by  a  visit  to  the 
West  Highlands  in  June,  1787,  when  Bums 
may  have  visited  Mary  Campbell's  grave  —  at 
Greenock,  which,  in  defiance  of  geography,  ap- 
pears "  at  the  last  limits  of  our  isle "  —  is 
sheer  sentiment.  The  truth  is,  there  is  no 
earthly  reason,  except  the  existence  of  that 
sentiment,  for  attributing  the  thing  to  Bums ; 
and,  as  it  is  utterly  unlike  his  work  —  especially 
his  work  in  English,  which  is  far  less  easy  and 
less  fluent  —  as,  too,  he  suggests  that  another 
wrote  it,  we  see  not  why  it  should  ever  have 
been  printed  as  his. 


Stkait  is  the  spot,  and  green  the  sod, 
From  whence  my  sorrows  flow; 

And  soundly  sleeps  the  ever  dear 
Inhabitant  below. 


Pardon  my  transport,  gentle  shade, 
While  o'er  the  turf  I  bow  ! 

Thy  earthly  house  is  circumscrib'd, 
And  solitary  now  ! 


Not  one  poor  stone  to  tell  thy  name 
Or  make  thy  virtues  known  ! 

But  what  avails  to  thee  —  to  me  — 
The  sculpture  of  a  stone  ? 


I  '11  sit  me  down  upon  this  turf, 
And  wipe  away  this  tear. 

Tlie  chill  blast  passes  swiftly  by, 
And  flits  around  thy  bier. 


POEM   ON   PASTORAL   POETRY 


317 


Dark  is  the  dwelling  of  the  dead, 
And  sad  their  house  of  rest: 

Low  lies  the  head  by  Death's  cold  arm 
In  awful  fold  embraced. 


I  saw  the  grim  Avenger  stand 

Incessant  by  thy  side ; 
Unseen  by  thee,  his  deadly  breath 

Thy  lingering  frame  destroy 'd. 


Pale  grew  the  roses  on  thy  cheek, 
And  wither' d  was  thy  bloom, 

Till  the  slow  poison  brought  thy  youth 
Untimely  to  the  tomb. 


Thus  wasted  are  the  ranks  of  men  — 
Youth,  health,  and  beauty  fall  ! 

The  ruthless  ruin  spreads  around. 
And  overwhelms  us  all. 


Behold  where,  round  thy  narrow  house, 
The  graves  unnumber'd  lie  ! 

The  multitude,  that  sleep  below, 
Existed  but  to  die. 


Some  with  the  tottering  steps  of  Age 
Trod  down  the  darksome  way; 

And  some  in  Youth's  lamented  prime. 
Like  thee,  were  torn  away. 


Yet  these,  however  hard  their  fate, 
Their  native  earth  receives: 

Amid  their  weeping  friends  they  died. 
And  fill  their  fathers'  graves. 


From  thy  lov'd  friends,  when  first   thy 
heart 

Was  taught  by  Heaven  to  glow. 
Far,  far  remov'd,  the  ruthless  stroke 

Surpris'd,  and  laid  thee  low. 

XIII 

At  the  last  limits  of  our  Isle, 
Wash'd  by  the  western  wave, 

Touch'd  by  thy  fate,  a  thoughtful  Bard 
Sits  lonely  on  thy  grave  ! 


XIV 


Pensive  he  eyes,  before  him  spread. 
The  deep,  outstretch'd  and  vast. 

His  mourning  notes  are  borne  away 
Along  the  rapid  blast. 


And  while,  amid  the  silent  dead. 
Thy  hapless  fate  he  mourns. 

His  own  long  sorrows  freshly  bleed, 
And  all  his  grief  returns. 


Like  thee,  cut  off  in  early  youth 
And  flower  of  beauty's  pride. 

His  friend,  his  first  and  only  joy, 
His  much-lov'd  Stella  died. 

XVII 

Him,  too,  the  stern  impulse  of  Fate 

Resistless  bears  along. 
And  the  same  rapid  tide  shall  whelm 

The  Poet  and  the  Song. 


The  tear  of  pity,  which  he  shed, 
He  asks  not  to  receive: 

Let  but  his  poor  remains  be  laid 
Obscurely  in  the  grave  ! 


His  grief-worn  heart  with  truest  joy 
Shall  meet  the  welcome  shock; 

His  airy  harp  shall  lie  unstrung 
And  silent  on  the  rock. 


O  my  dear  maid,  my  Stella,  when 
Shall  this  sick  period  close. 

And  lead  the  solitary  Bard 
To  his  belov'd  repose  ? 


POEM    ON    PASTORAL   POETRY 

Currie,  from  a  MS.  in  Bnrns's  hand ;  but 
Gilbert  Burns  strongly  doubted  its  authenti- 
city, and  internal  evidence  shows  that  it  may 
have  been  written  by  some  contemporary  of 
Allan  Ramsay.  Thus  in  stanza  vi.  that  maker 
is  referred  to  as  alive  ;  while  no  mention  is 
made  of  either  Hamilton  of  Gilbertfield  or 
Fergfusson,  one  or  other  of  whom  may  well 
have   been   the   author.     Bums,  again,  knew 


3^8 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


nothing  ot  Theocritus  and  nothing  of  Maro ; 
and,  had  he  written  of  pastoral  verse,  would 
certainly  have  quoted,  not  Pope  but  his  fa- 
vourite Shenstone. 


Hail,  Poesie!  thou  Nymph  reserv'd  ! 

In  chase  o'  thee,  what  crowds  hae  swerv'd 

Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  enerv'd 

'Mang  heaps  o'  clavers ! 
And  ocL!  o'er  aft  thy  joes  hae  starv'd 

'Mid  a'  thy  favours  ! 


Say,  Lassie,  why  thy  train  amang, 
While  loud  the  trump's  heroic  clang, 
And  sock  or  buskin  skelp  alang 

To  death  or  marriage, 
Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  shepherd-sang 

But  wi'  miscarriage  ? 


In  Homer's  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives; 
Eschylus'  pen  Will  Shakespeare  drives; 
Wee  Pope,  the  knurlin,  till  him  rives 

Horatiau  fame; 
In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 

Even  Sappho's  flame  ! 


But  thee,  Theocritus,  wha  matches  ? 
They  're  no  herd's  ballats,  Maro's  catches  ! 
Squire  Pope  but  busks  his  skinklin  patches 

O'  heathen  tatters  ! 
I  pass  by  hunders,  nameless  wretches, 

That  ape  their  betters. 


In  this  braw  age  o'  wit  and  lear, 
Will  nane  the  Shepherd's  whistle  mair 
Blaw  sweetly  in  its  native  air 

And  rural  grace, 
And  wi'  the  far-fam'd  Grecian  share 

A  rival  place  ? 


Yes  !  there  is  ane  —  a  Scottish  callan  ! 
There  's  ane  !     Come  forrit,  honest  Allan  ! 
Thou  need  na  jouk  behint  the  hallan, 

A  chiel  sae  clever  ! 
The  teeth  o'  Time  may  gnaw  Tantallan, 

But  thou 's  for  ever. 


Thou  paints  auld  Nature  to  the  nines 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines  ! 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro'  myrtles  twines, 

Where  Philomel, 
While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines, 

Her  griefs  will  tell: 


In  gowany  glens  thy  burnie  strays, 
Where  bonie  lasses  bleach  their  claes, 
Or  trots  by  hazelly  shaws  and  braes 

Wi'  hawthorns  gray. 
Where  blackbirds  join  the  shepherd's  lays 

At  close  o'  day. 


Thy  rural  loves  are  nature's  sel': 
Xae  bombast  spates  o'  nonsense  swell, 
Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  spell 

O'  witchin  love. 
That  charm  that  can  the  strongest  quell, 

The  sternest  move. 


ON    THE    DESTRUCTION   OF 
DRUMLANRIG   WOODS 

First  published  in  The  Scots  Magazine  for 
July  (ISOo),  where  it  is  stated  that  the  verses 
had  been  found  "  written  on  the  window-shutter 
of  a  small  inn  on  the  banks  of  the  Nith,"  and 
that  they  were  '"  supposed  to  have  been  written 
by  Burus."  This  is  a  little  vague.  Cromek, 
who  did  n't  print  the  verses,  told  Creech  that 
they  were  written  by  Henry  Mackenzie,  but 
there  is  nothing  beyond  this  statement  to  con- 
firm the  ascription ;  though  one  could  credit 
Mackenzie  with  them  far  more  easily  than  one 
could  credit  Burns. 


As  on  the  banks  of  winding  Nith 

Ae  smiling  simmer  morn  I  stray'd, 
And  traced  its  bonie  holms  and  haughs, 

Where  Unties  sang,  and  lammies  play'd, 
I  sat  me  down  upon  a  craig. 

And  drank  my  fill  o'  fancy's  dream, 
When  from  the  eddying  deep  below 

Up  rose  the  Genius  of  the  Stream. 


Dark  like  the  frowning  rock  his  brow, 
And  troubled  Uke  his  wintry  wave. 


WHY   SHOULD    WE  IDLY  WASTE  OUR   PRIME 


319 


And  deep  as  sughs  the  boding  wind 
Amang  his  caves  the  sigh  he  gave. 

"  And  come  ye  here,  my  sou,"  he  cried, 
"  To  wander  in  my  birkeu  shade  ? 

To  muse  some  favourite  Scottish  theme, 
Or  sing  some  favourite  Scottish  maid  ? 


"  There  was  a  time,  it 's  nae  lang  syne, 

Ye  might  hae  seen  me  in  my  pride, 
When  a'  my  banks  sae  bravely  saw 

Their  woody  pictures  in  my  tide ; 
When  hanging  beech  and  spreading  elm 

Shaded  my  stream  sae  clear  and  cool; 
And  stately  oaks  their  twisted  arms 

Threw  broad  and  dark  across  the  pool; 


"  When,  glinting  thro'  the  trees,  appear'd 

The  wee  white  cot  aboon  the  mill, 
And  peaceful  rose  its  ingle  reek. 

That,  slowly  curling,  clamb  the  hill. 
But  now  the  cot  is  bare  and  cauld, 

Its  leafy  bield  for  ever  gane. 
And  scarce  a  stinted  birk  is  left 

To  shiver  in  the  blast  its  lane." 


"  Alas  !  "  quoth  I,  "  what  ruef  u'  chance 

Has  twin'd  ye  o'  your  stately  trees  ? 
Has  laid  your  rocky  bosom  bare  ? 

Has  stripp'd  the  deeding  aff  your  braes  ? 
Was  it  the  bitter  eastern  blast, 

That  scatters  blight  in  early  spring  ? 
Or  was  't  the  wil'fire  scorch'd  their  boughs  ? 

Or  canker-worm  wi'  secret  sting  ?  " 

VI 

"  Nae  eastlin  blast,"  the  Sprite  replied  — 

"  It  blaws  na  here  sae  fierce  and  fell, 
And  on  my  dry  and  halesome  banks 

Nae  canker-worms  get  leave  to  dwell: 
Man  !  cruel  man  !  "  the  Genius  sigh'd. 

As  through  the  cliffs  he  sank  him  down: 
•'  The  worm  that  gnaw'd  my  bouie  trees. 

That  reptile  wears  a  Ducal  crown." 


THE   JOYFUL   WIDOWER 

This  very  squalid  performance  is  attributed 
by  Stenhouse  to  Burns  ;  but  he  never  acknow- 
ledged it. 


I  MARRIED  with  a  scolding  wife 

The  fourteenth  of  November: 
She  made  me  weary  of  my  life 

By  one  unruly  member. 
Long  did  I  bear  the  heavy  yoke, 

And  many  griefs  attended, 
But  to  my  comfort  be  it  spoke, 

Now,  now  her  life  is  ended  ! 


We  liv'd  full  one-and-twenty  years 

A  man  and  wife  together. 
At  length  from  me  her  course  she  steer'd 

And  gone  I  know  not  whither. 
Would  I  could  guess,  I  do  profess: 

I  speak,  and  do  not  flatter. 
Of  all  the  women  in  the  world, 

I  never  would  come  at  her  ! 

Ill 

Her  body  is  bestowed  well  — 

A  handsome  grave  does  hide  her. 
But  sure  her  soul  is  not  in  Hell  — 

The  Deil  would  ne'er  abide  her  ! 
I  rather  think  she  is  aloft 

And  imitating  thunder, 
For  why  ?  —  Methinks  I  hear  her  voice 

Tearing  the  clouds  asunder  ! 


WHY   SHOULD  WE  IDLY  WASTE 
OUR   PRIME 


Why  should  we  idly  waste  our  prime 

Repeating  our  oppressions  ? 
Come  rouse  to  arms  !     'Tis  now  the  time 

To  punish  past  transgressions. 
'T  is  said  that  Kings  can  do  no  wrong  — 

Their  murderous  deeds  deny  it, 
And,  since  from  us  their  power  is  spnmg. 

We  have  a  right  to  try  it. 
Now  each  true  patriot's  song  shall  be:  — 
"  Welcome  Death  or  Libertie  ! " 


Proud  Priests  and  Bishops  we  '11  translate 

And  canonize  as  Martyrs; 
The  guillotine  on  Peers  shall  wait; 

And  Knights  shall  hang  in  garters. 
Those  Despots  long  have  trode  us  down, 

And  Judges  are  their  engines: 


320 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


Such  wietched  minions  of  a  Crown 
Demand  the  people's  vengeance  ! 
To-day  'tis  theirs.     To-morrow  we 
Shall  don  the  Cap  of  Libertie  ! 

Ill 

The  Golden  Age  we'll  then  revive: 

Each  man  will  be  a  brother; 
lu  harmony  we  all  shall  live, 

And  share  the  earth  together; 
In  Virtue  train'd,  enlighteu'd  Youth 

Will  love  each  fellow-creature; 
And  future  years  shall  prove  the  truth 

That  Man  is  good  by  nature: 
Then  let  us  toast  with  three  times  three 
The  reign  of  Peace  and  Libertie  ! 


THE   TREE    OF    LIBERTY 

Chambers  gave  as  his  authority  a  MS.  then 
in  the  possession  of  Mr.  James  Duncan,  More- 
field,  Glasgow.  The  Tree  of  Liberty  reads  like 
a  bad  blend  of  Scots  Wha  Hae  and  Is  There 
For  Honest  Poverty;  and  as  the  MS.  has  not 
been  heard  of  since  1838,  we  may  charitably 
conclude  that  Burns  neither  made  the  trash 
nor  copied  it. 


Heard  ye  o'  the  Tree  o'  France, 

And  wat  ye  what 's  the  name  o't  ? 
Around  it  a'  the  patriots  dance  — 

Weel  Europe  kens  the  fame  o't ! 
It  stands  where  ance  the  Bastile  stood  - 

A  prison  built  by  kings,  man. 
When  Superstition's  hellish  brood 

Kept  France  in  leading-strings,  man. 


Upo'  this  tree  there  grows  sic  fruit. 

Its  virtues  a'  can  tell,  man: 
It  raises  man  aboon  the  brute. 

It  mak's  him  ken  himsel',  man  ! 
Gif  ance  the  peasant  taste  a  bit, 

He  's  greater  than  a  lord,  man, 
And  wi'  the  beggar  shares  a  mite 

O'  a'  he  can  afford,  man. 


This  fruit  is  worth  a'  Afric's  wealth: 
To  comfort  us  't  was  sent,  man. 

To  gie  the  sweetest  blush  o'  health. 
And  mak'  us  a'  content,  man  ! 


It  clears  the  een,  it  cheers  the  heart, 
Mak's  high  and  low  guid  friends,  man, 

And  he  wha  acts  the  traitor's  part. 
It  to  perdition  sends,  man. 


My  blessings  ay  attend  the  chiel, 

AVha  pitied  Gallia's  slaves,  man, 
And  staw  a  branch,  spite  o'  the  Deil, 

Frae  'yont  the  western  waves,  man  ! 
Fair  Virtue  water' d  it  wi'  care. 

And  now  she  sees  wi'  pride,  man. 
How  weel  it  buds  and  blossoms  there, 

Its  branches  spreading  wide,  man. 


But  vicious  folk  ay  hate  to  see 

The  works  o'  Virtue  thrive,  man: 
The  courtly  vermin  's  bann'd  the  tree, 

And  grat  to  see  it  thrive,  man  ! 
King  Louis  thought  to  cut  it  down, 

When  it  was  unco  sma',  man; 
For  this  the  watchman  crack'd  his  crown, 

Cut  aff  bis  head  and  a',  man. 


A  wicked  crew  syne,  on  a  time, 

Did  tak'  a  solemn  aith,  man, 
It  ne'er  should  flourish  to  its  prime  — 

I  wat  they  pledg'd  their  faith,  man  ! 
Awa  they  gaed  wi'  mock  parade, 

Like  beagles  hunting  game,  man. 
But  soon  grew  weary  o'  the  trade, 

And  wish'd  they  'd  been  at  hame,  man. 


Fair  Freedom,  standing  by  the  tree, 

Her  sous  did  loudly  ca',  man. 
She  sang  a  sang  o'  Liberty, 

Which  pleas'd  them  aue  and  a',  man. 
By  her  inspir'd,  the  new-born  race 

Soon  drew  the  avenging  steel,  man. 
The  hirelings  ran  —  her  foes  gied  chase, 

And  bang'd  the  despot  weel,  man. 


Let  Britain  boast  her  hardy  oak. 

Her  poplar,  and  her  pine,  man  ! 
Auld  Britain  ance  could  crack  her  joke. 

And  o'er  her  neighbours  shine,  man  ! 
But  seek  the  forest  round  and  round. 

And  soon  't  will  be  agreed,  man. 
That  sic  a  tree  can  not  be  found 

'Twixt  London  and  the  Tweed,  man. 


TO    THE   OWL 


321 


Without  this  tree  alake  this  life 

Is  but  a  vale  o'  woe,  man, 
A  scene  o'  sorrow  mix'd  wi'  strife, 

Nae  real  joys  we  know,  man; 
We  labour  soon,  we  labour  late, 

To  feed  the  titled  knave,  man, 
And  a'  the  comfort  we  're  to  get, 

Is  that  ayont  the  grave,  man. 


Wi'  plenty  o'  sic  trees,  I  trow. 

The  warld  would  live  in  peace,  man. 
The  sword  would  help  to  mak'  a  plough. 

The  din  o'  war  wad  cease,  man. 
Like  brethren  in  a  common  cause. 

We  'd  on  each  other  smile,  man; 
And  equal  rights  and  equal  laws 

Wad  gladden  every  isle,  man. 


Wae  worth  the  loon  wha  wadna  eat 

Sic  halesome,  dainty  cheer,  man  ! 
I  'd  gie  the  shoon  frae  aflf  my  feet. 

To  taste  the  fruit  o't  here,  man  ! 
Syne  let  us  pray,  Auld  England  may 

Sure  plant  this  far-famed  tree,  man; 
And  blythe  we  '11  sing,  and  herald  the  day 

That  gives  us  liberty,  man. 


TO    A    KISS 

Published  in  a  Liverpool  paper  called  The 
Kaleidoscope,  and  there  attributed  to  Burns. 
It,  however,  appeared  origmally  (and  anony- 
mously) in  The  Oracle,  January  29,  1796,  long 
the  favoured  organ  of  the  wretched  Delia 
Cruscau  shoal ;  and  it  has  the  right  Anna 
Matilda  smack  throughout.  After  all,  too, 
that  a  thing  is  bad  enough  to  have  been  written 
by  Burns  for  Thomson  is  no  proof  that  it  is 
Burns's  work. 


Humid  seal  of  soft  affections, 
Tend'rest  pledge  of  future  bliss. 

Dearest  tie  of  young  connections. 
Love's  first  snow-drop,  virgin  kiss  ! 


Speaking  silence,  dumb  confession, 
Passion's  birth  and  infant's  play, 


Dove-like  fondness,  chaste  confession, 
Glowing  dawn  of  brighter  day  ! 


Sorrowing  joy,  adieu's  last  action, 
Liug'riug  lips  —  no  more  must  join  ! 

Words  can  never  speak  affection, 
Thrilling  and  sincere  as  thine  ! 


DELIA 

AN   ODE 
I 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day. 
Fair  the  tints  of  op'uiug  rose: 

But  fairer  still  my  Delia  dawns, 
More  lovely  far  her  beauty  blows. 


Sweet  the  lark's  wild-warbled  lay, 
Sweet  the  tinkling  rill  to  hear: 

But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still 
Steal  thine  accents  on  mine  ear. 


The  flower-enamoured  busy  bee 
The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip; 

Sweet  the  streamlet's  limpid  lapse 
To  the  sun-brown'd  Arab's  lip: 


But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 
Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rove  ! 

O,  let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss  ! 

For  O  !  my  soul  is  parch'd  with  love  ! 


TO    THE    OWL 

"  Found  among  the  Poet's  Mss.  in  his  own 
handwriting,  with  occasional  interlineations 
such  as  occur  in  all  his  primitive  effusions  ; ' ' 
but  attributed  by  him  to  John  M'Creddie,  of 
whom  nothing  is  known.  To  oxu:  mind,  those 
who  give  the  verses  to  Burns  would  give  him 
anything. 

I 

Sad  bird  of  night,  what  sorrow  calls  thee 
forth, 
To  vent  thy  plaints  thus  in  the  midnight 
hour  ? 


322 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONGS 


Is  it  some  blast  that  gathers  in  the  north, 
Threat 'ning  to   nip  the  verdure  of  thy 
bow'r  ? 

II 

Is  it,  sad  owl,  that  Autumn  strips  the  shade, 
And   leaves   thee  here,  unshelter'd  and 
forlorn  ? 
Or  fear  that  Winter  will  thy  nest  invade  ? 
Or    friendless    Melancholy    bids     thee 
mourn  ? 

in 

Shut  out,  lone  bird,  from  all  the  feather'd 
train, 
To  tell   thy  sorrows   to  th'  unheeding 
gloom. 
No  friend  to  pity  when  thou  dost  complain, 
Grief  all  thy  thought,  and  solitude  thy 
home, 


Sing  on,  sad  mourner  !     I  will  bless  thy 

strain, 

And  pleas'd  in  sorrow  listen  to  thy  song. 

Sing   on,    sad     mourner  !     To    the    night 

complain, 

While  the  lone  echo  wafts  thy  notes  along. 


Is  Beauty  less,  when  down   the    glowing 
cheek 
Sad,  piteous  tears  in  native  sorrows  fall  ? 
Less  kind  the  heart  when  anguish  bids  it 
break  ? 
Less  happy  he  who  lists  to  Pity's  call  ? 

VI 

Ah  no,   sad   owl  !    nor  is   thy   voice   less 
sweet, 
That  Sadness  tunes  it,  and  that  Grief  is 
there  ? 
That   Spring's   gay  notes,    unskill'd,  thou 
can't  repeat, 
That  Sorrow  bids  thee  to  the  gloom  re- 
pair ! 

VII 

Nor  that  the  treble  songsters  of  the  day, 
Are  quite  estranged,  sad  bird  of  night, 
from  thee  ! 
Nor  tliat   the  thrush  deserts  the   evening 
spray. 
When  darkness  calls  thee  from  thy  rev- 
erie ! 


VIII 

From    some    old    tower,   thy   melancholy 
dome. 
While   the   gray  walls  and  desert  soli- 
tudes 
Return  each  note,  responsive  to  the  gloom 
Of  ivied  coverts  and  surrounding  woods: 

IX 

There  hooting,  I  will  list  more  pleased  to 
thee. 

Than  ever  lover  to  the  nightingale, 
Or  drooping  wretch,  oppress'd  with  misery, 

Lending  his  ear  to  some  condoling  tale  ! 


THE   VOWELS 

A   TALE 
Found  among  the  Poet's  papers. 

'T  WAS  where  the  birch  and  sounding  thong 

are  ply'd. 
The  noisy  domicile  of  pedant  pride; 
Where   Ignorance   her   darkening  vapour 

throws, 
And  Cruelty  directs  the  thickening  blows  ! 
Upon  a  time.  Sir  ABC  the  great. 
In  all  his  pedagogic  powers  elate. 
His  awful  chair  of  state  resolves  to  mount. 
And  call  the  trembling  Vowels  to  account. 

First  enter'd  A,  a  grave,  broad,  solemn 

vright. 
But,  ah  !  deform'd,  dishonest  to  the  sight  ! 
His  twisted  head  look'd  backward  on  his 

way. 
And  flagrant  from  the  scourge  he  grunted, 

ai! 

Reluctant,  E  stalk'd  in  ;  a  piteous  case, 
The   justling  tears   ran   down   his   honest 

face  ! 
That  name,  that  well-worn  name,  and  all 

his  own. 
Pale,  he  surrenders  at  the  tyrant's  throne  ! 
The  Pedant  stifles  keen  the  Roman  sound 
Not  all  his  mongrel  diphthongs  can  com- 
pound; 
And  next  the  title  following  close  behind. 
He  to  the  nameless,    ghastly  wretch   as- 
sign'd. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   A   FAVOURITE   CHILD 


323 


The  cobwebb'd  gothic  dome  resounded,  Y  ! 
In  sullen  vengeance,  I  disdain'd  reply: 
The  Pedant  swmig  his  felon  cudgel  round, 
And  knock'd  the  groaning  vowel   to   the 
ground  ! 

In  rueful  apprehension  enter'd  O, 
The  wailing  minstrel  of  despairing  woe: 
Th'  Inquisitor  of  Spain  the  most  expert 
Might  there  have  learnt  new  mysteries  of 

his  art. 
So  grim,  deform'd,  with  horrors  entering,  U 
His   dearest   friend   and  brother   scarcely 

knew  ! 

As  trembling  U  stood  staring  all  aghast, 
The  Pedant  in  his  left  hand  clutch'd  him 

fast, 
In   helpless   infants'   tears   he    dipp'd   his 

right, 
Baptiz'd  him  eii,  and  kick'd  him  from  his 

sight. 


ON  THE  ILLNESS  OF  A  FAVOUR- 
ITE   CHILD 

It  is  hard  to  believe  that  Burns,  though  his 
taste  in  English  was  none  of  the  finest,  could 
even  transcribe  such  immitigable  rubbish. 


Now  health  forsakes  that  angel  face, 
Nae  mair  my  dearie  smiles. 

Pale  sickness  withers  ilka  grace, 
And  a'  my  hopes  beguiles. 


The  cruel  Powers  reject  the  prayer 

I  hourly  mak'  for  thee: 
Ye  Heavens  !  how  great  is  my  despair  ! 

How  can  I  see  him  die  ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVOUR- 
ITE   CHILD 

Bums's  daughter,  Elizabeth  Riddell,  died  in 
the  autumn  of  1795.  But  this  fact  can  scarce 
be  regarded  as  proof  of  the  authenticity  of 
verses  altogether  in  the  manner  of  Mrs.  He- 
mans. 


O,  SWEET  be  thy  sleep  in  the  land  of  the 
grave. 
My  dear  little  angel,  for  ever  ! 
For   ever  ?  —  O    no  !    let   not   man   be   a 
slave. 
His  hopes  from  existence  to  sever  ! 


Though   cold  be  the  clay,  where  thou  pil- 
low'st  thy  head 
In  the  dark,  silent  mansions  of  sorrow, 
The  spring  shall  return  to  thy  low,  narrow 
bed. 
Like  the  beam  of  the  day-star  to-mor- 
row. 

Ill 

The  flower-stem  shall  bloom  like  thy  sweet 
seraph  form 
Ere  the  spoiler  had  nipt  thee  in  blos- 
som. 
When  thou  shrank  frae  the  scowl  of  the 
loud  winter  storm. 
And  nestled  thee  close  to  that  bosom. 

IV 

O,  still  I  behold  thee,  all  lovely  in  death, 
Reclined  on  the  lap  of  thy  mother, 

When    the    tear-trickle   bright,    when   the 
short,  stifled  breath 
Told  how  dear  ye  were  ay  to  each  other. 


My  child,  thou  art  gone  to  the  home  of  thy 
rest. 
Where   suffering   no   longer    can   harm 
thee : 
Where  the  songs  of  the  Good,  where  the 
hymns  of  the  Blest 
Through  an  endless  existence  shall  charm 
thee  ! 


While  he,  thy   fond  parent,  must  sighing 
sojourn 
Through  the  dire  desert  regions  of  sor- 
row, 
O'er  the  hope  and  misfortune  of  being  to 
mourn. 
And  sigh  for  this  life's  latest  morrow. 


GLOSSARY 


^',all. 

Abeigh,  at  a  shy  distance. 

Abooii,  above. 

Abread,  abroad,  in  sight. 

Acquent,  acquainted. 

Adle,  putrid  water. 

Ae,  one. 

Aff,  off. 

Aff-hand,  at  once. 

Aft,  oft. 

A-gley,  off  the  right  line. 

Aiblins,  perhaps. 

Aik,  oak. 

Ain,  own. 

Air,  early. 

Airle,  earnest  money. 

Aims,  irons. 

Airt,  the  point  from  which  the  wind 

blows. 
Aiih,  oath. 
Aiver,  an  old  horse. 
Aizle,  a  cinder. 
Amaist,  almost. 
Amang,  among. 
An,  if. 

Ance,  ones,  once. 
Ane,  one. 
Anither,  another. 
An  '«,  and  am. 
Ase,  ashes. 
Asklent,  aslant. 
Auld,  old. 

Auldfarrani,  shrewd. 
Aumous,  alms. 
Awa\  away. 
Awe,  owe. 
Awju\  awful. 
Aye,  always. 

Ba\  ball. 

Backet,  a  box. 

Baggie,  the  belly. 

Bainie,  bony. 

Bnlth,  both. 

Ban,  curse. 

Bane,  bone. 

Bardie,  dim.  of  bard. 

Barm,  yeast. 

Baits,  the  colic. 

Baudrons,  a  cat. 

Bauld,  bold. 

Baick,  an  open  space  in  a  cornfield. 

Baivtie,  a  familiar  name  for  a  dog. 

Bear,  barley. 

Beastie,  dim.  of  beast. 

Beet.<!,  adds  fuel  to  fire. 

Belang,  belong  to. 

Beld,  bald. 

Bflyve,  by  and  by. 

Ben,  in,  into  the  spence  or  parlor. 

Bethankit,  the  grace  after  meat. 

Bicker,  a  wooden  cup. 

Biflld,  shelter. 

Bien,  plentiful. 

Big,  to  build. 

Billie,  a  young  fellow. 

Bings,  heaps. 

Birdie,  dim.  of  bird. 


Birk,  the  birch. 

Birkie,  a  spirited  fellow. 

Bizz,  a  buzz. 

Blaslie,  a  term  of  contempt. 

Blaslii,  blasted,  withered. 

Blate,  shamefaced,  bashful. 

Blaud,  a  large  quantity,  a  screed. 

Blaw,  to  blow,  to  brag. 

Blaun,  blown. 

Bleerl,  bleared. 

Bleeze,  a  blaze. 

Bleezing,  blazing. 

Blellum,  an  idle-talking  fellow. 

Blether,  bladder. 

Blethering,  talking  idly. 

Blin\  blind. 

Blink,  a  look. 

Blinkers,  spies. 

Butter,  the  snipe. 

Bluid,  blood. 

Blypes,  shreds. 

Bobbed,  curtsied. 

Boddle,  a  small  coin. 

Bogle,  a  ghost. 

Bole,  a  hole. 

Bonny,  beautiful. 

Boost,  behove,  must  needs. 

Bore,  hole  or  rent. 

Bouk,  bulk,  a  human  trunk. 

Bousing,  drinking. 

Brae,  the  slope  of  a  hill. 

Braid,  broad. 

Brak,  did  break. 

Brak  's,  broke  his. 

Brankie,  spruce. 

Branks,  a  curb,  a  bridle. 

Brats,  rags. 

Brattle,  a  scamper. 

Brair,  handsome. 

Braiclie,  perfectly. 

Breastie,  dim.  of  breast. 

Brechan,  a  horse  collar. 

Breeks,  breeches. 

Breer,  a  brier. 

Brent,  straight,  smooth,  unwrinkled. 

Brief,  a  writ. 

Brig,  a  bridge. 

Brither,  brother. 

Brock,  a  badger. 

Brulyie,  brulzie,  a  brawl. 

Bum,  hum. 

Burdie,  damsel. 

Burn,  a  stream. 

Burnie,  dim.  of  bum. 

Busk,  adorn. 

But,  without. 

Byke,  bee-hive. 

Ca\  to  drive. 
Cadger,  a  hawker. 
Callan,  a  boy. 
Caller,  fresh. 
Cam,  came. 
Canna,  cannot. 
Cannie,  easy,  gentle. 
Cantrip,  charm,  spell. 
Canty,  pleasant. 
Cape-stane,  cope-stone. 


Carle,  an  old  man. 

Carlin,  an  old  woman. 

Cartes,  cards. 

Caul  J,  cold. 

Chap,  a  fellow. 

Cheerfu\  cheerful. 

Chiel,  a  fellow. 

Chimia,  a  chimney. 

Chow,  chew. 

Chuckie,  an  old  dear. 

Clachan,  a  hamlet. 

Claes,  clothes. 

Claiih,  cloth. 

Clavib,  climbed. 

Clarty,  dirty. 

Clash,  idle  tale,  tattle. 

Clatter,  to  talk  idly. 

Claughi,  clutched. 

Clavers,  idle  stories. 

Cleckin,  a  brood. 

Clecd,  to  clothe. 

Cleekit,  linked  themselves. 

Cleg,  a  gadfly. 

Clink,  a  sharp  stroke. 

Clips,  shears. 

Cloot,  a  hoof. 

Clout,  a  patch. 

Coble,  a  fiat  boat. 

Cod,  a  pillow. 

Cofl,  bought. 

Cog,  a  wooden  drinking  vessel. 

Collieshangie,  a  squabble. 

Cood,  a  cud. 

Coo/,  a  fool. 

Cooser,  a  stallion. 

Coast,  did  cast. 

Co}-bies,  ravens. 

Couldna,  could  not. 

Cou}i,  capsize. 

Couthie,  kindly,  loving. 

Cour,  to  cower. 

CowWin',  cowering. 

Cozie,  cosy. 

Crack,  a  story  or  harangue,  to  talk. 

Craig,  the  throat. 

Crambo-jingle,  rhjTnes. 

Crankous,  fretful. 

Cranreuch,  hoar-frost. 

Craw,  to  crow. 

Creeshie,  greasy. 

Crood,  coo. 

Croon,  a  hollow  and  continued  moao. 

Crouse,  gleeful,  lively. 

Croudie,  porridge. 

Crummie,  a  homed  cow. 

Cummock,    a    short    staff    with    a 

crooked  head. 
Curpin,  the  crupper. 
Cutty,  short,  bob-tailed. 

Baffin,  larking,  fun. 

Bails,  planks. 

Baimen-icker,  an  ear  of  com  now  and 

then. 
Barg,  daurk,  work,  task. 
Baud,  pelt. 
Baur,  to  dare. 
Bauma,  dare  not. 


326 


GLOSSARY 


Daut,  fondle,  pet. 

Deave,  to  deafen. 

Deil,  deTil. 

Dem'd,  hid. 

Devel,  a  stunning  blow. 

Dight,  to  make  ready,  to  wipe. 

Dine,  dinner-time. 

Ding,  brat. 

DiTl,  to  vibrate. 

Doited,  muddled,  stupid. 

Donsie,  unlucky. 

Dool,  sorrow. 

Douce,  grave,  sober. 

Doup,  the  bottom. 

Dour,  stubborn. 

Dow,  to  be  able,  a  dove. 

Dowff,  pithless,  silly. 

Dou-ie,  low-spirited. 

Doytin\  walking  stupidly. 

Dozened,  dozin,  torpid. 

Dribble,  drizzle. 

Driddle,  toddle. 

Driegh,  dull,  tedious. 

Droddum,  the  breech. 

Drouk,  drench. 

Drouthy,  thirsty. 

Drumlie,  muddy. 

Dub,  a  puddle. 

Duddie,  ragged. 

Duddies,  garments. 

Dune,  done. 

Dyvor,  a  bankrupt. 

E'e,  eye. 
Een,  eyes. 
Eild,  age,  old  age. 
Eldritch,  frightful. 
Embro\  Edinburgh. 
Eneuch,eneugh,  enow,  enough. 
Etlle,  design. 
Eydent,  diligent. 

Fa'',  lot,  to  fall ;  weel  she  fa's,  she  has 
a  good  right. 

Fae,  a  foe. 

Faem,  foam. 

Faiket,  excused. 

Fain,  fond,  glad. 

Fair-Ja\  a  benediction. 

Fairin,  a  present,  a  reward. 

Faithfu\  faithful. 

Fallow,  a  fellow. 

Fand,  found. 

Farls,  oat  cakes. 

Fash,  to  trouble. 

Fasten-e''en,  Fasten's  even. 

FatVrels,  ribbon-ends. 

Faun,  fallen. 

Fause,  false. 

Faut,  fault. 

Faicsoniy  decent,  seemly. 

Feck,  the  greater  portion,  considera- 
ble. 

Feckless,  powerless. 

Feg,  fig. 

Fell,  nippy,  tasty,  dreadful. 

Fend,  to  live  comfortably. 

Ferlie,  a  term  of  contempt. 

Fidge,  to  fidget. 

Fidg  in-fain,  fidgeting  with  eager- 
ness. 

Fient,  a  petty  oath. 

Fier,  healthy,  sound. 

Fiere,  friend,  comrade. 

Fissle,  to  fidget. 

FU,  foot. 

Floe,  a  flea. 


Flaffln,  flapping. 

Flang,  did  fling  or  caper. 

Flannen,  flannel. 

FUech'd,  supplicated. 

Fleesh,  fleece. 

Fleg,  a  blow,  a  scare. 

Fleuil,  a  sharp  lash. 

Fley,  scare. 

Flichterin\  fluttering. 

Flinging,  capering. 

Ftiskii,  capered. 

Flit,  shift. 

Flyte,  scold. 

Fodgel,  dumpy. 

Foggage,  stray    vegetable    material 

used  by  birds,  etc.,  for  nests. 
Foor,  fared. 
Forbears,  forefathers. 
Forby,  besides. 
Forfairn,  worn  out. 
Forfoughien,  exhausted. 
Forgather,    to    make    acquaintance 

with. 
Forgesket,  fatigued. 
Forgie,  forgive. 
Forrit,  forward. 
Fou,  tipsy. 
Fouth,  abundance. 
Frae,  from. 
Fremit,  estranged. 
Frien',  friend. 
Fu\  full. 
Fud,  a  short  tail. 
Fuff't,  puffed. 
Fusionless,  pithless. 
Fyke,  fret. 
Fyle,  foul,  soil. 

Gab,  mouth. 
Gae,  gave,  go. 
Gaels,  manners. 
Gairs,  gores. 
Gang,  to  go. 
Gangrel,  vagrant. 
Gar,  to  make. 
Gart,  made. 
Gash,  wise,  talkative. 
Gat,  got. 

Gate,  way  or  road. 
Gaudsman,  a  goodsman,  a  plough- 
boy. 
Gaun,  going. 
Oaunt,  yawn. 

Gawsie,  gaucie,  buxom,  jolly. 
Gear,  wealth,  goods. 
Geek,  sport. 
Ged,  a  pike. 
Genty,  trim,  elegant. 
Ghaisl,  a  ghost. 
Gie,  give. 
Gif,  if. 

Gifiie,  dim.  of  gift. 
Gilpey,  a  young  girl. 
Gin,  if. 
Gim,  to  grin. 
Glaikit,  giddy,  foolish. 
Glaumed,  grasped. 
Gled,  a  hawk. 
Gleede,  a  coal,  a  blaze. 
Gleg,  sharp,  quick. 
Glinted,  glanced. 
Glower,  to  stare. 
Glunch,  a  frown. 
Goavin,  mooning. 
Oowan,  the  daisy. 
Gowany,  daisied. 
Oowrl,  gold. 


Gowden,  golden 

Gowdspink,  goldflnch. 

Gowff'd,  struck. 

Gowk,  a  dolt. 

Graff,  a  grave. 

Graith,  harness,  field  implementa. 

Grane,  grain,  groan. 

Grat,  wept. 

Gratefu\  grateful. 

Gree,  a  prize. 

Greet,  to  weep. 

Gri.si/e,' gristle. 

Grozet,  gooseberry. 

Grumphie,  a  sow. 

Oruntle,    grunzie,    the    snout,    the 

mouth. 
Grushie,  growing. 
Grutten,  wept. 

Gude,  the  Supreme  Being,  good. 
Gude-father,  father-iu-law. 
Guid,  good. 
Guid-willie,  hearty. 
Gully,  a  large  knife. 
Gumlie,  muddy. 

Ha\  haU. 

Ha'-Bible,  hall-Bible. 

Hae,  have. 

Haet,  a  bit,  an  atom. 

Haffets,  the  temples. 

Hajflins,  partly. 

Hag,  a  moss,  a  broken  bog. 

Haggis,  a  kind  of  pudding  boiled  in 

the  stomach  of  a  cow  or  sheep,  the 

national  Scots  pudding. 
Hain,  to  spare,  to  save. 
Hairst,  har'st,  harvest. 
Hal\  hold,  an  abiding-place. 
Hale,  whole,  entire. 
Halesome,  wholesome. 
Hallan,  a  particular  partition  wall  in 

a  cottage. 
Haly,  holy, 
/fame,  home. 
Hamely,  homely. 
Han\  hand. 

Hand-waVd,  band-picked. 
Hansel,  a  gift. 
Hap,  a  wrap. 
Hap-shackled,  foot-tied. 
Horn,  yam. 

Hash,  a  soft,  useless  fellow. 
Haslock  woo,  the  wool  on  a  sheep's 

neck. 
Hand,  to  hold. 
Haughs,  low-lying  rich  lands. 
Haurl,  trail,  drag. 
Hause,  embrace,  cuddle. 
Haveril,  a  half-witted  person. 
Havers,  nonsense. 
Havins,  good  manners. 
Hawkie,  a  cow,  properly  one  with  a 
white  face. 
Hearse,  hoarse. 
Hecht,  promise,  menace. 
Heeze,  hoist. 
Heft,  haft. 

Herry,  harry,  plunder. 
Hersel,  herself. 
Het,  hot. 

Heugh,  a  crag,  a  ateep  bank. 
Hilch,  to  hobble. 
Himsel,  himself. 
Hing,  to  hang. 
Hirple,  hobble,  limp. 
Hittie,  dry,  barren. 
Hitch,  loop  or  knot. 


GLOSSARY 


327 


Hizzie,  a  young  woman. 

Lade,  load. 

JVa',  not,  no. 

Hoast,  a  cough. 

Lag,  slow. 

iVae,  no. 

Hog,  a  young  sheep. 

Laich,  laigh,  low. 

Naetking,  nothing. 

Hoodie-craw,  the  hooded  crow. 

Z/OiA;,  lack. 

Naig,  nag. 

Hoodock,  miserly. 

Laithfu\  bashful. 

Nane,  none. 

Hool,  a  hull,  a  husk. 

Lane,  alone. 

Nappy,  ale. 
Aeeoor,  neighbor. 

Hoolie,  slowly. 

Lanely,  lonely. 

Horn,  a  spoon  made  of  horn. 

Lang,  long. 

A'eist,  next. 

HoicWd,  fidgeted. 

Lap,  did  leap. 

Neuk,  a  nook,  a  comer. 

Houlets,  owls. 

Lave,  the  rest. 

TVici',  to  cut,  to  sever. 

Housie,  dim.  of  house. 

Laverock,  the  lark. 

Niest,  next. 

Howdy,  a  midwife. 

Lawin,  a  tavern  reckoning. 

Nieve,  a  fist. 

Howk,  dig. 

Lea''e,  leave. 

Niffer,  exchange. 

HuUions,  slovens. 

Z.ear,  lore,  learning. 

Nit,  a  nut. 

Hunder,  hundred. 

Leesome,  pleasant. 

Nocht,  nothing. 

Hurcheon,  a  hedgehog. 

i/ceze  7?ie  on,  blessings  on,  commend 

Nowte,  cattle. 

Hurdles,  the  hips. 

me  to. 

Hus/iion,  a  footless  stocking. 

Leugk,  laughed. 

0',  of. 

Hyle,  furious. 

Leuk,  look. 

Ony,  any. 

Li/t,  the  sky. 

Or,  ere. 

ler-oe,  a  great-grandchild. 

Lightly,  to  disparage,  to  scorn. 

Orra,  extra,  occasional. 

Ilka,  every. 

Limmer,  a  jade. 

Ourie,  shivering,  drooping. 

Ingine,  genius,  ingenuity. 

Linket,  tripped  deftly. 

Oursel,  ourselves. 

Ingle,  fireplace. 

Linn,  a  waterfall. 

Owre,  over. 

Ingle-cheek,  fireside. 

Lint,  flax. 

Owsen,  oxen. 

Ingle-lowe,  firelight. 

Lintwhite,  the  linnet. 

1  'se,  I  shall  or  will. 

Ltppened,  trusted. 

Pack  an'  thick,  confidential. 

Ither,  other. 

Z/Oan,  a  lane. 

PaidlH,  paddled,  waded. 

Lo'ed,  loved. 

Painch,  the  paimch,  the  stomach. 

.Tad,  jade. 

Loof,  the  palm  of  the  hand. 

Paitrick,  a  partridge. 

Jauk,  to  dally  or  trifle. 

Loosome,  lovable. 

Pang,  to  cram. 

Jauner,  foolish  talk. 

Loot,  let. 

Parritch,  porridge,  oatmeal  pudding. 

Jaups,  splashes. 

Loup,  to  leap. 

Pat,  put. 

Jillet,  a  jilt. 

Lowe,  flame. 

Patlle,  a  stick  with  which  a  plough- 

Jivip, to  jump  ;  small,  slender. 

Lowpin\  leaping. 

man  clears  thedirtf rom  his  plough. 

Jink,  the  slip  ;  to  frisk,  to  dodge. 

Lucky,  a  grandmother,  an  old  wo- 

Paughty, haughty. 

Jirt,  a  jerk. 

man. 

Paukie,  pauky,  artful,  sly. 

Jo,  a  sweetheart,  a  term  expressing 

Lug,  an  ear. 

Pechan,  the  stomach. 

affection  and  some  degree  of  fa- 

Luggie, a  small  wooden  dish  with  a 

Penny-fee,  wages. 

miliarity. 

handle. 

Penny  uheep,  &ma.\\  beer. 

Jocteleg,  a  jack-knife. 

Lum,  a  chimney. 

Pickle,  a  few,  a  little. 

Joes,  lovers. 

LurU,  a  column  of  smoke  or  steam. 

Plack,  an  old  Scotch  coin. 

Jouk,  to  duck. 

Luve,  love. 

Plaidie,  dim.  of  plaid. 

Jundie,  to  jostle. 

Lyart,  gray. 

Pleugh,  plough. 

Jurr,  a  servant  wench. 

Pliskie,  a  trick. 

Mae,  mair,  more. 

Plivtr,  a  plover. 

Kae,  a  jackdaw. 

Mailen,  a  farm. 

Pock,  a  pouch. 

Kail,  broth. 

Jlfat,  to  make. 

Poorliih,  poverty. 

Kail-blade,  a  colewort  or  cabbage- 

Maukin,  a  hare. 

Posie,  a  bouquet. 

leaf. 

Maim,  must. 

Pou,  to  pull. 

Kain,  rent  paid  in  kind. 

Maunna,  must  not. 

Pouch,  a  pocket. 

Kame,  a  comb. 

Mavis,  the  thrush. 

Pouk,  to  poke. 

Kebars,  rafters. 

Jtfait',  to  mow. 

Pause,  a  push. 

Kebbuck,  cheese. 

Mear,  a  mare. 

Poussie,  a  hare. 

Keckle,  cackle,  giggle. 

Meikle,  mickle,  much,  great. 

Pouts,  chicks 

Keek,  to  peep. 

Melder,  corn  or  grain  of  any  kind  seat 

Poic,  the  head,  the  skull. 

Ken,  to  know. 

to  the  mill  to  be  ground. 

Pownie,  a  pony. 

Kennin,  a  very  little. 

Mell,  to  associate  with,  meddle. 

Pree'd,  tasted. 

Ket,  fleece. 

Mense,  good  manners. 

Preen,  a  pin. 

Kiaugh,  anxiety. 

Menseless,  mannerless. 

Priggin,  haggling. 

Kilt,  tuck  up. 

Merle,  a  blackbird. 

P«',  to  pull. 

Kimmer,  a  gossip. 

Messin,  a  little  dog. 

Punds,  pounds. 

Kin\  kind. 

Midden,  a  dunghill. 

Pu'pil,  pulpit. 

Kirk,  church. 

Mim,  prim. 

Pyet,  a  magpie. 

Kim,  a  churn,  harvest-home. 

Minnie,  mother. 

Pyke,  to  pick. 

Kirsen,  to  christen. 

Mirk,  dark. 

Pyles,  grains. 

Kist,  a  chest. 

Misca\  to  miscall,  to  abuse. 

Kiltie,  tickle,  ticklish. 

Mishanter,  misfortune. 

Quat,  quit. 

Kiutlin,  cuddling. 

Mither,  mother. 

Quean,  a  lass. 

Knaggie,  knobby. 

Monie,  many. 

Quej/,  a  heifer. 

Knappin-hammer,      hammers     for 

Moop,  to  nibble. 

breaking  stones. 

Mou\  mouth. 

Raible,  to  gabble. 

Knowe,  a  knoll. 

Mourn/u\  mournful. 

ifair.  to  roar. 

Knurlin,  a  dwarf. 

Muckle,  much. 

Raize,  to  excite. 

Kye,  cows. 

Mutchkin,  an  English  pint. 

Randie,  lawless,  a  ruflBan. 

Kythe,  show. 

Mysel,  myself. 

Rape,  a  rope. 

328 


Raah,  a  rueb. 

Rattan,  a  rat. 

Raucle,  fearless. 

Raz,  to  etretch. 

Reaming,  foaming. 

Red-wud,  stark  imid. 

Reekin',  amokiDg. 

Reekit,  smoked. 

Reif,  thieving. 

Remead,  remedy. 

Restrickfd,  restricted. 

Riff,  a  ridge. 

Rigwooddie,  withered,  sapless. 

Rin,  to  run. 

Ripp,  a  handful  of  untbrashed  corn. 

Rive,  to  burst. 

Rives,  tears  to  pieces. 

Rockin\    a     social    gathering,    the 

women  spinning  on  the   rede  or 

distaff. 
Roose,  to  praise. 
Rottan,  a  rat. 

Roitpet,  hoarse  as  with  a  cold. 
Routh,  plenty. 
Row,  to  roll. 
Rowte,  to  bellow. 
Rozet,  rosin. 
Rung,  a  cudgel. 
Ryke,  to  reach. 

Sae,  80. 

Sair,  sore,  to  serve. 

S airly,  sorely. 

Sang,  a  song. 

Sark,  a  shirt. 

Saugh,  a  willow. 

iSauZ,  a  soul. 

Saujit,  a  saint. 

<S'a!<<,  salt. 

San»,  to  sow. 

Sax,  six. 

Scaith,  hurt. 

Scaud,  scauld,  to  scold. 

Scaur,  a  cliff,  a  bank. 

Scanner,  disgust. 

Screed,  a  rent. 

Scrievin,  moving  swiftly. 

Scrogyie,  scrubby. 

Sctildudd'ry,  bawdry. 

Sel,  self. 

ShachlU,  deformed. 

Shangnn,  a  cleft  stick. 

Shaw,  show,  a  wooded  delL 

Sheugh,  a  ditch,  a  furrow. 

Shiel,  aslied. 

Shag,  a  shake. 

Shoots,  shovels. 

Shoon,  shoes. 

Shored,  offered. 

Shouther,  shoulder. 

Sic,  siccan,  such. 

Sicker,  secure,  certain. 

Siller,  silver,  money. 

Simmer,  summer. 

5m',  since. 

Sinny,  sunny. 

Sinsyne,  since. 

Skiiith,  damage,  harm. 

Skeigh,  shy,  proud,  disdainful. 

Skellum,  a  worthless  fellow. 

Skelp,  slap,  strike,  run. 

Skelpin',  walking  smartly. 

Skelpit,  hurried. 

Skinking,  thin,  watery. 

Skinklin',  glittering. 

Skirl,  to  shriek. 

Sklent,  slant,  squint. 


GLOSSARY 


Skreigh,  to  scream. 

S/cyte,  a  dash. 

Slaps,    gates,    stiles,    breaches    in 
hedges. 

Slaw,  slow. 

Slee,  sly,  ingenious. 

Steelcit,  sleek. 

Smeddum,  dust,  powder. 

Smoor'd,  smothered. 

Snakin,  sneering. 

Snapper,  to  stumble. 

Sriash,  abuse. 

Snaiv,  snow. 

Sned,  to  lop,  to  cut. 

Sneeshin  mill,  a  snuff-box. 

Snell,  bitter,  biting. 

Silicic,  a  latch. 

Snirtle,  to  snigger. 

Snood,  a  fillet. 

Snool,  to  cringe,  to  submit  tamely. 

Snoove,  to  go  smoothly. 

Sonsie,  jolly,  comely. 

Soom,  swoom,  to  swim. 

Souk,  to  suck. 

Soupe,  a  spoonful,  a  small  quantity 
of  anything  liquid. 

Souple,  supple. 

Souter,  a  shoemaker. 

Soivth,  to  try  over  a  tune  with  a  low 
whi.stle. 

Souther,  to  solder. 

Spae,  to  foretell. 

Spairge,  to  splash. 

Spak,  spake. 

Spate,  a  flood. 

Spaviet,  spavined. 

Spean,  to  wean. 

Speel,  to  climb. 

Spence,  the  country  parlor. 

Spier,  to  ask,  inquire. 

Spier't,  inquired. 

Spleuchan,  a  tobacco  pouch. 

Splore,  a  frolic,  a  row. 

Sprattle,  to  struggle. 

Spring,  a  lively  tune. 

Spunk,  a  match,  a  spark,  spirit. 

Squattle,  to  sprawl. 

Stacker,  to  stagger. 

Stack,  stuck. 

Staig,  a  young  horse. 

Stane,  a  stone. 

Stank,  a  ditch,  a  pool. 

Starns,  stars. 

Staumrel,  half-witted. 

Staw,  stole,  a  stall. 

Steek,  a  stitch,  to  close. 

Steer,  to  injure,  to  meddle  with. 

Sleeve,  stiff. 

St  en,  a  leap. 

Slibble,  stubble. 

Stilt,  limp. 

Stiric,  a  cow  or  bullock  a  year  old. 

Sloiter,  to  stagger. 

Stoor,  hoarse. 

Stoure,  dust. 

Straik,  a  stroke. 

Strang,  strong. 

Strathfpey,  a  Scottish  dance. 

Streekit,  stretched. 

Strunt,  liquor. 

Slrunt,  to  strut. 

Slurt,  worry,  trouble. 

Sugfi,  a  rushing  sound. 

Stvnll'd,  swelled. 

Swank,  limber. 

Swarf,  to  swoon. 

Swats,  ale. 


Swith,  swift. 
Swither,  hesitation. 
Sybow,  a  young  onion. 
Syne,  then,  since. 

Tack,  a  lease. 

Tasre,  taken. 

Tak,  to  take. 

Tune,  the  one. 

Tapetless,  heedless. 

Tapinost,  topmost. 

Taps,  tops. 

Tauld,  told. 

Tawpie,  a  foolish  young  woman. 

Tawted,  matted,  uncombed. 

Teals,  sm-iU  quantities. 

Teen,  provocation,  chagrin. 

Tent,  to  take  heed,  mark. 

Tenlie,  heedful. 

Teugh,  tough. 

Thack,  thatch. 

Thae,  these. 

Thairm,  an  intestine. 

Theckit,  thatched. 

Theyilher,  together. 

Themsel,  themselves. 

Thiggin,  begging. 

Thir,  these. 

Thlrfd,  thrilled. 

Thole,  to  suffer,  to  endure. 

Thou  's,  thou  art,  thou  wilt. 

Thowless,  lazy. 

Thrang,  a  throng,  crowded,  busy. 

Thrapple,  the  windpipe. 

Throve,  twenty-four  sheaves  of  com, 

including  two  shocks. 
Thraiv,  to  twist,  to  turn,  to  thwart. 
Threap,  to  assert  persistently. 
Thretly,  thirty. 
Thrissle,  thistle. 
Thuvimnrt,  a  polecat. 
Thysel,  thyself. 
Tight,  prepared. 
Till,  to,  unto. 
Till  H,  to  it. 
Tine,  to  go  astray. 
Tinkler,  a  tinker. 
Tint,  lost. 

Tippeny,  twopenny  ale. 
Tips,  rams. 

Tirl,  to  uncover,  to  rattle. 
Tocher,  a  dowry. 
Tods,  foxes. 
Toom,  empty. 
Toop,  a  ram. 
Toun,  a  hamlet. 
Tow,  a  rope. 

Towmonl,  a  twelvemonth. 
Towzie,  tousie,  shaggy. 
Toy,  an  old  fashion  of  female  head. 

dress. 
Toyte,  to  totter. 
Tozie,  tipsy. 
Trews,  trousers. 
Trig,  trim,  neat. 
Troke,  to  exchange. 
Tryste,  a  fair,  a  cattle  market. 
Tulzie,  a  quarrel. 
Twa,  two. 
Twal,  twelve. 
Twin,  twine,  to  rob. 
Tyke,  a  vagrant  dog. 

Ulzie,  oil. 

Unchancy,  dangerous. 
Unco,  very,  strange. 
Uncos,  strange  things,  news. 


GLOSSARY 


329 


Un/auld,  to  unfold. 

Unlaw/u\  unlawful. 

Upo\  upon. 

Usquebae,  usquebaugh,  whiaky. 

Vaunlie,  vain,  proud. 
Vera,  very. 
Virls,  ferrules,  rings. 
Vogie,  vain. 

TFa',  wall. 

Wabsier,  a  weaver. 

Wad,  would,  wed,  wager. 

Wadset,  a  mortgage. 

Wae,  woe. 

Wae  worth,  woe  befall. 

Wair  '<,  spend  it. 

Wale,  to  choose. 

Walie,  ample,  large. 

Waine,  the  womb,  the  belly. 

Wan,  won. 

Wanchancie,  unlucky. 

Wanrestfu\  restless. 

Wark,  work. 

Warld,  world. 

Warlock,  wizard. 

WarVy,  worldly. 

Warsle,  to  wrestle,  to  struggle. 

Wat,  wot,  know,  wet. 

Wauble,  to  wobble. 

Waughi,  a  deep  draught. 

Wauketi,  to  waken. 

WaukU,  homy. 


Waukrife,  wakeful. 

Waur,  worse. 

Wean,  a  child. 

Weary  fa\  woe  befall. 

Wee,  little. 

Weel,  well. 

Weel-kain''d,  well-saved. 

Weet,  wet. 

We''se,  we  shall  or  will. 

Westlin,  western. 

Wha,  who. 

Whaizle,  to  wheeze. 

Wham,  whom. 

Whang,  a  large  slice,  to  flog. 

Whare,  where. 

Whaup,  the  curlew. 

Wlieep,  to  jerk. 

Whid,  a  fib. 

Whiddin,  scudding. 

Whids,  gambols. 

Whiles,  sometimes. 

Whingin,  whining. 

Whins,  furze  bushes. 

Whissle,  whistle. 

Whitter,  a  hearty  draught  of  liquor. 

Wi',  with. 

WV  'm,  with  him. 

Widdle,  a  wriggle,  a  struggle. 

Wiel,  a  whirlpool. 

Wifie,  dim.  of  wife. 

Wight,  strong,  active. 

Willyart,  bashful. 

Win,  won. 


Winna,  will  not. 

Winnock-bunker,  a  seat  in  a  window. 
Wins,  winds. 

Wintle,  to  wriggle,  to  stagger. 
Wiss,  wtiss,  to  wish. 
Woeju',  woeful. 
Wo7i,  to  dwell. 

Wonner,  a  wonder,  a  term  of  con- 
tempt. 
Woo\  wool. 

Woodie,  a  rope,  the  gallows. 
Wordy,  worthy. 
Worset,  worsted. 
Wrang,  wrong. 
Wud,  mad. 

Wyliecoat,  a  flannel  vest. 
Wyte,  blame. 

Yaud,  a  jade,  an  old  mare. 

Yell,  dry. 

Yerkit,  jerked. 

Yerl,  an  earl. 

Yestreen,  last  night. 

Yelt,  a  gate. 

Yeuk,  to  itch. 

KiV/,  ale. 

Yirth,  the  earth. 

YokitV,  yoking,  a  bout,  a  set  to. 

Yont,  beyond. 

Younkers,  youngsters. 

Yoursel,  yourself. 

Youth/u\  youthful. 

Yowe,  ewe. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES 


[The,first  lines  of  Choruses  to  Songs  are  included  in  this  Index] 


1  fig  for  those  by  law  protected,  107. 
A  Guid  New-Year  I  wish  thee,  Magg:ie,  26. 
A  head,  pure,  sinless  quite  of  brain  and  soul,  186. 
A  highland  lad  my  love  was  born,  104. 
A  lassie  all  alone  was  making  her  moan,  250. 
A  little,  upright,  pert,  tart,  tripping  wight,  181. 
A  rose-bud,  by  my  early  walk,  213. 
A  slave  to  Love's  unbounded  sway,  269. 
A'  the  lads  o'  Thorniebank,  208. 
A'  ye  wha  Uve  by  sowps  o'  drink,  40. 
Adieu  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu,  53. 
Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace.  98. 
Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander,  277. 
Ae  day,  as  Death,  that  gruesome  carl,  194. 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever,  237. 
Afar  the  illustrious  Exile  roams,  154. 
Again  rejoicing  Nature  sees,  77. 
Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time,  72. 
Ah,  Chloris,  since  it  may  not  be,  313. 
Ah,  woe  is  me,  my  Mother  dear,  171. 
All  hail,  inexorable  lord,  39. 
All  villain  as  I  am  —  a  damned  wretch,  180. 
Altho'  he  has  left  me  for  greed  o'  the  siller,  315. 
Altho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa\  260. 
Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir,  301. 
Altho'  thou  maun  never  be  mine,  281. 
Amang  the  trees,  where  humming  bees,  .308. 
Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods,  99. 
An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest,  194. 
An  somebodie  were  come  again,  221. 
An  ye  had  been  whare  I  hae  been,  229. 
An'  Charlie  he  's  my  darling,  253. 
An'  O,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam,  239. 
An'  0  my  Eppie,  227. 
Ance  crowdie,  twice  crowdie,  270. 
Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 

263. 
And  I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  yet,  213. 
And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat,  77. 
Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire,  95. 
As  cauld  a  wind  aa  ever  blew,  187. 
As  down  the  bum  they  took  their  way,  316. 
As  father  Adam  first  was  fool'd,  53. 
Aa  I  cam  doon  the  banks  o'  Nith,  162. 
As  I  cam  o'er  the  Caimey  mount,  2.58. 
As  I  gaed  down  the  water-side,  224. 
Aa  I  gaed  up  by  yon  gate-end,  313. 
As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower,  250. 
As  I  was  walking  up  the  street,  270. 
Aa  Mailie,  an'  her  lambs  thegither,  14. 
As  on  the  banks  of  winding  Nith,  318. 
As  Tam  the  chapman  on  a  day,  194. 
Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small,  187. 
At  Brownhill  we  always  get  dainty  good  cheer, 

187. 
Anld  Chnckie  Reekie 's  sair  distrest,  119. 


Auld  comrade  dear  and  brither  sinner,  142. 
Awa',  Whigs,  awa',  223. 
Awa  wi'  your  belles  and  your  beauties,  277. 
Awa  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  Beauty's  alarms. 

277. 
Ay  waukiu,  O,  217. 

Bannocks  o'  bear  meal,  260. 

Beauteous  Rosebud,  young  and  gay,  95. 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows,  76. 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive,  292,  312. 

Below  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie's  banes,  54. 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie,  231. 

Bless  Jesus  Christ,  O  Cardoness,  197. 

Blest  be  M'Murdo  to  his  latest  day,  178. 

Blythe,  blythe  and  merry  was  she,  211. 

Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill,  278. 

Bonie  lassie,  will  ye  go,  203. 

Bonie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing,  236. 

Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes,  271. 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  0  Galloway,  189. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green,  261 . 

But  rarely  seen  since  Nature's  birth,  19.'^. 

But  warily  tent  when  ye  come  to  court  me,  202. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  167. 

By  Allan  stream  I  chanc'd  to  rove,  278. 

By  love  and  by  beauty,  227. 

By  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik,  211. 

By  yon  castle  wa'  at  the  close  of  the  day,  233. 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes,  224,  292. 

Can  I  cease  to  care,  290. 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katie,  278. 

Carl,  an  the  King  come,  221. 

Cauld  blows  the  wind  frae  east  to  west,  206. 

Cauld  is  the  e'enin  blast,  269. 

Cease,  ye  prudes,  your  envious  railing,  185. 

Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul,  215. 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er,  212. 

Come,  bumpers  high  !  express  your  joy,  311. 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast,  279. 

Comin  thro'  the  rye,  poor  body,  252. 

Contented  wi'  little  and  cantie  wi'  mair,  279. 

Craigdarroch,  fam'd  for  speaking  art,  182. 

Crochallan  came,  182. 

Curs'd  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch  in  life, 

187. 
Curse  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be  pleased, 

171. 

Daughter  of  Chaos'  doting  years,  154. 

Dear ,  I  '11  gie  ye  some  advice,  184. 

Dear  Peter,  dear  Peter,  146. 
Dear  Sir,  at  onie  time  or  tide,  142. 
Dear  Smith,  the  slee'st,  pawkie  thief,  16. 
Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure,  273. 


332 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


Dire  was  tlie  hate  at  Old  Harlaw,  168. 
Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat,  266. 
Do3t  ask  me  why  I  send  thee  here,  315. 
Dost  thou  not  rise,  indignant  Shade,  177. 
Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo,  272. 
Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark,  81. 

Edina  1  Scotia's  darling  seat,  73. 
Euvy,  if  thy  jaundiced  eye,  186, 
Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration,  42. 

Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul,  139. 

Fair  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  face,  72. 

Fair  maid,  you  need  not  take  the  hint,  185. 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day,  321. 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks,  289. 

Fareweel  to  a'  our  Scottish  fame.  24.5. 

Farewell,  dear  friend  !  may  guid  luck  hit  you. 

130. 
Farewell,  old  Scotia's  hleak  domain,  172. 
Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and 

j'e  skies,  21*5. 
Farewell,  thou  stream  that  winding  flows.  280. 
Farewell  to  the    Highlands,    farewell  to  the 

North,  223. 
Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong,  204. 
Fate  gave  the  word  —  the  arrow  sped,  225. 
Fill  me  with  the  rosy  wine,  192. 
Fintry,  my  stay  in  worldly  strife,  162. 
First,  when  Maggie  was  my  care,  221. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,   among  thy  green 

braes,  247. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that,  106,  228. 
For  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie,  296. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  2.51. 
For  lords  or  kings  I  dinna  mourn,  120. 
For  0,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang,  211. 
For  shame,  185. 

For  thee  is  laughing  Nature  gay,  315. 
Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near,  292. 
Fourteen,  a  sonneteer  thy  praises  smgs,  180. 
Frae  the  friends  and  land  I  love,  231. 
Friday  first 's  the  day  appointed,  130. 
Friend  of  the  Poet  tried  and  leal,  147. 
From  the  white-blossomd  sloe  my  dear  Chloris 

requested,  190. 
From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go,  53. 
From  those  drear  solitudes  and  frowsr  cells, 

123. 
Full  weU  thou  know'st  I  love  thee  dear,  289. 
Fy,  let  us  a'  to  Kirkcudbright,  165. 

Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk 's  the  night,  233. 

Gat  ye  me,  0,  gat  ye  me,  2.>4. 

Go,  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine,  220. 

Gracie,  thou  art  a  man  of  worth,  192. 

Grant  me,  indulgent  Heaven,  that  I  may  live, 

188. 
Green  grow  the  rashes.  O,  77. 
Gude  pity  me,  because  I  'm  little,  115. 
Guid  e'en  to  you,  kimmer,  264. 
Guid-moi-nin  to  your  Majesty,  18. 
Guid  speed  and  furder  to  you,  Johnie,  125. 

Ha  !  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie,  43. 

Had  I  a  cave,  280. 

Had  I  the  wyte  ?  had  I  the  wyte,  252. 


Hail,  Poesie  !  thou  Nymph  reserv'd,  318. 

Hail,  thairm-inspirin,  rattlin  Willie,  133. 

Hark,  the  mavis'  e'ening  sang,  293. 

Has  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  Deil,  66. 

He  clench'd  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist,  184. 

He  looked,  186. 

He  who  of  Rankine  sang,  lies  stiff  and  deid, 

198. 
Health  to  the  Maxwells'  vet'ran  Chief,  146. 
Hear,  land  o'  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots,  94. 
Heard  ye  o'  the  Tree  o'  France,  320.i 
Hee  balou,  my  sweet  wee  Donald,  260. 
Her  daddie  forbad,  her  minnie  forbad,  206. 
Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  wing,  305. 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie,  270. 
Here  brewer  Gabriel's  fire  's  extinct,  198. 
Here  cursing,  swearing  Burton  lies,  198. 
Here  Holy  Willie's  sair  worn  clay,  194. 
Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower,  273. 
Here  lie  WHLie  Michie"s  banes,  196. 
Here  lies  a  mock  Marquis,  whose  titles  were 

shamm'd,  198. 
Here  lies  Boghead  amang  the  dead,  193. 
Here  lies  in  earth  a  root  of  Hell,  198. 
Here  lies  John  Bushby  —  honest  man,  198. 
Here  lies  Johnie  Pigeon,  195. 
Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting  neglect,  197. 
Here  lyes  with  Dethe  auld  Grizzel  Grimme,  198. 
Here  's  a  bottle  and  an  honest  man,  307. 
Here  "s  a  health  to  ane  I  loe  dear,  280. 
Here  "s  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa,  312, 
Here  's  to  thy  health,  my  bonie  lass,  262, 
Here  Souter  Hood  in  Death  does  sleep,  54. 
Here  Stewarts  once  in  glory  reign'd,  185. 
Here,  where  the  Scottish  Muse  immortal  lives, 

146, 
Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro',  248. 
Hey  the  dusty  miller,  207. 
Hey  tutti,  taiti,  210. 
His  face  with  smile  eternal  drest,  186. 
How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad,  293. 
How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  Folly  once  fixed, 

197. 
How  cruel  are  the  parents,  281. 
How  daur  ye  ca'  me  "  Howlet-face,"  188. 
How  lang  and  dreary  is  the  night,  211. 
How,    "Liberty!"      Girl,  can  it  be  by  thee 

nam'd,  190. 
How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding 

Devon,  209. 
How  Wisdom  and  Folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite, 

156. 
Humid  seal  of  soft  affections,  321. 
Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife,  281. 

I  am  a  Bard,  of  no  regard,  106. 

I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade,  105. 

I  am  a  keeper  of  the  law,  124. 

I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many 

wars,  102. 
I  am  my  mammie's  ae  bairn,  203. 
I  bought  my  wife  a  stane  o'  lint,  238. 
I  call  no  Goddess  to  inspire  my  strains,  144. 
I  coft  a  stane  o'  haslock  woo,  255. 
I  do  confess  thou  art  sae  fair,  234. 
I  dream'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing* 

207. 


I 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


333 


I  fee'd  a  man  at  Martinmas,  248. 

I  gaed  a  waefu'  gate  yestreen,  230. 

I  gaed  up  to  Dunae,  266. 

I  gat  your  letter,  winsome  Willie,  47. 

I  had  sax  owsen  in  a  pleugh,  2t)5. 

I  hae  a  wife  o'  my  aiu,  238. 

I  hae  been  at  Crookieden,  235. 

I  hold  it.  Sir,  my  bounden  duty,  129. 

I  lang  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend,  39. 

I  '11  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town,  257. 

I  'm  now  arriv'd  —  thanks  to  the  Gods,  316. 

I  'm  o'er  young,  I  'm  o'er  young,  203. 

I  'm  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor,  127. 

I  married  with  a  scolding  wife,  319. 

I  mind  it  weel,  in  early  date,  135. 

I  murder  hate  by  field  and  flood,  188. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer,  298. 

I  once  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  canaot  tell  when,  103. 

I  rede  you,  beware  at  the  hunting,  young  men, 

306. 
I  rue  the  day  I  sought  her,  O,  219. 
I  see  a  form,  I  see  a  face,  284. 
I  sing  of  a  Whistle,  a  Whistle  of  worth,  100. 
I  tell  you  now  this  ae  night,  295. 
If  thou  should  ask  my  love,  220. 
If  ye  gae  up  to  yon  hill-top,  169. 
If  you  rattle  along  Uke  your  mistress's  tongue, 

190. 
Ill-fated  genius !  Heaven-taught  Fergusson,  176. 
In  coming  by  the  brig  o'  Dye,  208. 
In  honest  Bacon's  ingle-neuk,  146. 
In  Mauchline  there  dwells  six  proper  young 

belles,  171. 
In  politics  if  thou  wouldst  mix,  188. 
InSe'enteen  Hunder  'n  Forty-Nine,  191. 
In  simmer,  when  the  hay  wasmawn,  241. 
In  Tarbolton,  ye  ken,  there  are  proper  young 

men,  169. 
In  this  strange  land,  this  uncouth  clime,  139. 
In  vain  would  Prudence  with  decorous  sneer, 

183. 
In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng,  196. 
Inhuman  man  !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art,  93. 
Instead  of  a  song,  boys,  I  '11  give  you  a  toast, 

158. 
Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool,  55. 
Is  there  for  honest  poverty,  294. 
Is  this  thy  plighted,  fond  regard,  278. 
It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonie  face,  235. 
It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king,  262. 
It  was  in  sweet  Senegal,  246. 
It  was  the  charming  month  of  May,  282. 
It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night,  51. 

Jamie,  come  try  me,  219. 

Jockie  's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss,  268. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John,  223. 

Kemble,  thou  cur'st  my  unbelief,  191. 
Ken  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose,  122. 
KUmamock  wabsters,  fidge  an'  claw,  63. 
Kind  Sir,  I  've  read  your  paper  through,  145, 
Ejiow  thou,  O  stranger  to  the  fame,  54. 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Incky,  208. 

Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a',  195. 

Lament  in  rhTme,  lameat  in  prose,  15. 


Landlady,  count  the  lawin,  210. 

Lang  hae  we  parted  been,  218. 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks,  289. 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lane 

glen,  282. 
Late  crippl'd  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg,  85. 
Let  loove  sparkle  in  her  e'e,  316. 
Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear,  105. 
Let  not  women  e'er  complain,  274. 
Let  other  heroes  boast  their  scars,  116. 
Let  other  poets  raise  a  fracas,  5. 
Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize,  176. 
Light  lay  the  earth  on  Billie's  breast,  197. 
Lone  on  the  bleaky  hills,  the  strajdng  flocks, 

175. 
Long  life,  my  lord,  an'  health  be  yours,  153. 
Long,  long  the  night,  2fiO. 
Lord,  Thee  we  thank,  and  Tliee  alone,  193. 
Lord,  to  account  who  does  Thee  call,  188. 
Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes,  207. 
Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee,  252. 
Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn,  282. 

Mally  's  meek,  MaUy  's  sweet,  270. 
Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion,  294. 
Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave,  190. 
Meet  me  on  the  Warlock  Knowe,  283. 
Mild  zephyrs  waft  thee  to  life's  farthest  shore, 

182. 
Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean,  211. 
My  blessings  on  ye,  honest  wife,  184. 
My  bonie  lass,  I  work  in  brass,  105. 
My  bottle  is  a  holy  pool,  188. 
My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves,  288. 
My  curse  upon  your  venom'd  stang,  118. 
My  father  was  a  farmer    upon    the    Carrick 

border,  0,  302. 
My  godlike  friend  —  nay,  do  not  stare,  140. 
My  Harry  was  a  gallant  gaj',  216. 
My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  tittie,  230. 
My  heart  is  sair  —  I  dare  na  tell,  254. 
My  heart  is  wae,  and  unco  wae,  307. 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here,  223. 
My  heart,  was  ance  as  blythe  and  free,  202. 
My  honor'd  Colonel,  deep  I  feel,  147. 
My  lady's  gown,  there  's  gairs  upon  't,  267. 
My  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane,  267. 
My  lord.  I  know,  your  noble  ear,  96. 
My  lov'd,  my  honor'd,  much  respected  friend, 

28. 
My  love,  she  's  but  a  lassie  yet,  219. 
My  love  was  bom  in  Aberdeen,  225. 
My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form,  264. 
My  Sandy  gied  to  me  a  ring,  216. 
My  Sandy  O,  my  Sandy  0,  216. 
Myra,  the  captive  ribband  's  mine,  222. 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho'  ne'er  sae  fair,  205. 

Nae  heathen  name  shall  I  prefix,  137. 

Near  me,  near  me,  218. 

No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write,  79. 

No  cold  approach,  no  alter'd  mien,  315. 

No  more  of  your  gnests,  be  thev  titled  or  not, 

192. 
No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more, 

179. 


334 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


No  sculptur'd  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 

197. 
No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great  city, 

IJO. 
No  Spartan  tube,  no  Attic  shell,  158. 
No  Stewart  art  thou,  Galloway,  189. 
Now  haply  down  yon  gay  g^reeu  shaw,  257. 
Now  health  forsakes  that  angel  face,  323. 
Now  honest  William 's  gaen  to  Heaven,  196. 
Now  in  her  green  mantle  blythe  Nature  arrays, 

2«3. 
Now,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse,  128. 
Now  Nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea,  290. 
Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green,  84. 
Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair,  172. 
Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers,  283, 
Now  simmer  blinks  on  flow'ry  braes,  203. 
Now  spring  has  clad  the  g^rove  in  green,  284. 
Now  westfin  winds  and  slaughtering  guns,  52. 

0  a'  ye  pious,  godly  flocks,  107. 

O,  an  ye  were  dead,  guidman,  251. 

O,  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me,  265. 

O,  bonie  was  yon  rosy  brier,  291. 

O,  cam  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun,  227. 

O,  can  ye  labour  lea,  young  man,  248. 

O,  could  I  give  thee  India's  wealth,  143. 

O  Death,  hadst  thou  but  spared  his  life,  53. 

O  Death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody,  82. 

O,  for  him  back  again,  216. 

O  Goudie,  terror  o'  the  Whigfs,  125. 

O,  guid  ale  comes  and  guid  ale  goes,  265. 

O,  had  each  Scot  of  ancient  times,  186. 

O,  had  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind,  192. 

O,  he 's  a  ranting,  roving  lad,  225. 

O,  how  can  I  be  blythe  and  glad,  234. 

O,  how  shall  I,  unskilfu',  try,  237. 

O,  I  am  come  to  the  low  countrie,  263. 

O,  Jenny 's  a'  weet,  poor  body,  252. 

O  John,  come  kiss  me  now,  now,  now,  232. 

O,  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten,  268, 

313. 
O,  Kenmure  's  on  and  awa,  Willie,  239. 
O,  Lady  Mary  Ann  looks  o'er  the  Castle  wa', 

244. 
O  lassie,  are  ye  sleepin  yet,  295. 
O,  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass,  269. 
O,  leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles,  303, 
O,  leeze  me  on  my  spinnin-wheel,  240. 
O.  let  me  in  this  ae  night,  295. 
0  Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide,  291. 
O  Lord,  when  hunger  pinches  sore,  193, 
O  lovely  Polly  Stewart,  259, 
O,  luve  will  venture  in  where  it  daur  na  weel 

be  seen,  243. 
0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be,  299. 
0  May,  thy  mom  was  ne'er  sae  sweet,  258. 
O,  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty,  232. 
O,  merry  hae  I  been  teethin  a  heckle,  224. 
O,  mirk,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour,  274. 
O,  mount  and  go,  220. 
O,  my  bonie  Highland  lad,  258. 
O,  my  luTe  is  like  a  red,  red  rose,  250. 
O,  once  I  lov'd  a  bonie  lass,  267. 
O,  open  the  door  some  pity  to  shew,  271. 
,0  PhUly,  happy  be  that  day,  296. 
O  Poortith  oauld  and  restless  Love,  276. 


0,  raging  Fortune's  withering  blast,  302. 

O,  rattUn,  roarin  WUlie,  213. 

O  rough,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine,  50. 

O,  sad  and  heavy  should  I  part,  256. 

0,  saw  ye  bonie  Lesley,  275. 

0,  saw  ye  my  Dear,  my  Philly,  314. 

0,  saw  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  Macnab,  236. 

O,  sing  a  new  song  to  the  Lord,  156. 

O,  some  will  court  and  compliment,  232. 

O,  stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay,  275, 

O,  steer  her  up,  an'  baud  her  gaun,  264. 

0,  sweet  be  thy  sleep  in  the  land  of  the  g^rave,  323. 

0,  tell  me  na  o'  wind  an'  rain,  295. 

O,  that  I  had  ne'er  been  married,  270, 

0,  that 's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart,  284, 

0,  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie,  284. 

O  Thou  dread  Power,  who  reign'st  above,  70. 

0  Thou  Great  Being  !  what  Thou  art,  71. 

O  Thou,  in  whom  we  live  and  move,  193. 

O  thou  pale  Orb  that  silent  shines,  34. 

O  Thou  that  in  the  Heavens  does  dwell,  109. 

0  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend,  71. 

O  Thou  unknown.  Almighty  Cause,  38. 

O  thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee,  12. 

O  Thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide,  193. 

O  thou  whom  Poesy  abhors,  184. 

0  Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  day,  214. 

0,  wat  ye  wha  's  in  yon  town,  257. 

0,  wat  ye  wha  that  lo'es  me,  285, 

O,  were  I  on  Parnassus  hill,  222. 

0,  were  my  love  yon  Hlac  fair,  297. 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast,  315. 

O,  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me,  292. 

O,  wha  my  babie-clouts  will  buy,  226, 

0,  wha  wUl  to  Saint  Stephen's  House,  159, 

O,  whar  gat  ye  that  hauver-meal  bannock,  201. 

O,  whare  live  ye,  my  bonie  lass,  240. 

O,  when  she  cam  ben,  she  bobbed  f  u'  law,  239. 

O,  whistle  an'  I  'U  come  to  ye,  my  lad,  202. 

O,  why  should  Fate  sic  pleasure  have,  274. 

O,  why  the  deuce  should  I  repine,  170. 

O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut.  229. 

O,  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar,216- 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  gnid  yoursel,  65. 

O  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains,  54. 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  winds  can  blaw,  221. 

Of  all  the  numerous  ills  that  hurt  our  peace, 

181. 
Of  Lordly  acquaintance  yon  boast,  187. 
Old  Winter,  with  his  frosty  beard,  179. 
On  a  bank  of  flowers  in  a  summer  day,  218. 
On  Cessnock  banks  a  lassie  dwells,  301. 
On  peace  an'  rest  my  mind  was  bent,  265, 
Once  fondly  lov'd  and  still  remember'd  dear, 

131. 
One  night  as  I  did  wander,  304. 
One  Queen  Artemisa,  as  old  stories  tell,  54. 
Oppress'd  withgrief,  oppress'd  with  care,  35. 
Orthodox !  orthodox.  111. 
Our  thrissles  flourish'd  fresh  and  fair,  223. 
Out  over  the  Forth,  I  look  to  the  north,  253. 

Peg  Nicholson  -was  a  good  bay  mare,  175. 

"  Praise  Woman  still,"  his  lordship  roars,  190. 

Rash  mortal,  and  slanderoos  poet,  thy  name, 
186. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


335 


Raving  winds  around  her  blowing,  210. 
Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart,  136. 
Right,  sir !  your  text  I  '11  prove  it  true,  65. 
Robin  shure  iu  hairst,  266. 
Robin  was  a  rovin  boy,  304. 
Rusticity's  ungainly. form,  181. 

Sad  bird  of  night,  what  sorrow  calls  thee  forth, 

321. 
Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page,  96. 
Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets,  255. 
Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly,  204. 
Say,  sages,  what 's  the  charm  on  earth,  193. 
Scots,  wha.hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,  286. 
Searching  auld  wives'  barrels,  187. 
See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us,  107. 
Sensibility  how  charming,  234. 
She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing,  298. 
She  kiltit  up  her  kirtle  weel,  121. 
She  's  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  sae  gay,  311. 
She 's  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart,  249. 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot,  251. 
Simmer 's  a  pleasant  time,  217. 
Sing  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandman,  104. 
Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough, 

178. 
Sing,  round  about  the  fire  wi'  a  rung  she  ran, 

251. 
Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request,  114. 
Sir,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card,  129. 
Sir  Wisdom  's  a  fool  when  he  's  fou,  104. 
Sleep'st  thou,  or  wauk'st  thou,  fairest  crea- 
ture, 297. 
So  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest's  shocks,  186. 
So  vile  was  poor  Wat,  such  a  miscreant  slave, 

197. 
Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end,  57. 
Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  Galloway,  189. 
Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me,  205. 
Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favor,  152. 
Stop,  passenger !  my  story  's  brief,  83. 
"  Stop  thief  I "  Dame  Nature  call'd  to  Death, 

198.  _ 
Strait  is  the  spot,  and  green  the  sod,  316. 
Streams  that  glide  in  Orient  plains,  121. 
Sweet  are  the  banks,  the  banks  o'  Doon,  309. 
Sweet  closes  the  ev'ning  on  Craigiebum  Wood, 

231. 
Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigiebum,  276, 
Sweet  flow'ret,  pledge  o'  meikle  love,  99. 
Sweet  naivete  of  feature,  189. 
Sweetest  May,  let  Love  inspire  thee,  268. 
Symon  Gray,  you  're  dull  to-day,  137. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  savages,  192. 
That  hackney 'd  judge  of  human  Hfe,  193. 
That  there  is  a  falsehood  in  his  looks,  191. 
The  bairns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout,  249. 
The  blude-red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw,  212. 
The  boniest  lad  that  e'er  I  saw,  259. 
The  cardin  o't,  the  spinnin  o't,  255. 
The  cares  o'  Love  are  sweeter  far,  183. 
The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen,  225. 
The  Cooper  o'  Cuddy  came  here  awa,  254. 
The  crimson  blossom  charms  the  bee,  137. 
The  day  returns,  my  bosom  bums,  219. 
The  Deil  cam  fiddlin  thro'  the  town,  249. 


The  Deil 's  awa,  the  DeU  's  awa,  249. 

The  Devil  got  notice  that  Grose  was  a-dying,  186. 

The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades,  it  fa's,  259. 

The  friend  whom,  wild  from  Wisdom's  way,  147. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast,  78. 

The  greybeard,  old  Wisdom,  may  boast  of  his 
treasures,  188. 

The  heather  was  blooming,  the  meadows  were 
mawn,  306. 

The  lamp  of  day  with  ill-presaging  glare,  173. 

The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin  John,  206. 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill,  220. 

The  lovely  lass  of  Inverness,  250. 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  plac'd,  70. 

The  night  was  still,  and  o'er  the  hill,  306. 

The  noble  Maxwells  and  their  powers,  241, 

The  ploughman,  he  's  a  bonie  lad,  210. 

The  poor  man  weeps  — ■  here  Gavin  sleeps,  55. 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough,  59. 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  re- 
turning, 308. 

The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing,  247. 

The  Solemn  League  and  Covenant,  191. 

The  sun  had  clos'd  the  winter  day,  20. 

The  sun  he  is  sunk  in  the  west,  300. 

The  tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed,  thimble  an'  a',  217. 

The  tailor  he  cam  here  to  sew,  261, 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea,  230. 

The  tither  morn,  when  I  forlorn,  237. 

The  wean  wants  a  cradle,  269, 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund,  238. 

The  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills,  87. 

The  winter  it  is  past,  and  the  simmer  comes  at 
last,  215. 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast,  37. 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lauds 
reckon,  286. 

Then,  guidwife,  count  the  la  win,  233. 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher,  277. 

Then  up  wi't  a',  my  ploughman  lad,  210. 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonie  Mary,  208. 

There  giows  a  bonie  brier-bush  in  our  kail- 
yard, 261. 

There  lived  a  carl  in  Kellybum  Braes,  245. 

There's  a  youth  in  this  city,  it  were  a  great 
pity.  222. 

There  's  Auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon 
glen,  271. 

There  's  Death  in  the  cup,  so  beware,  192. 

There 's  nane  shall  ken,  there 's  nane  can  guess, 
257. 

There 's  news,  lasses,  news,  269. 

There 's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  ban',  77. 

There  's  three  true  guid  fellows,  255. 

Therewasabonielass,andabonie,bonielass,269. 

There  was  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyle,  304. 

There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair,  297. 

There  was  a  lass,  they  ca'd  her  Meg,  208. 

There  was  a  wife  wonn'd  in  Cockpen,  265. 

There  was  five  carUns  in  the  South,  160. 

There  was  on  a  time,  but  old  Time  was  then 
young,  310. 

There  was  three  kings  into  the  east,  74. 

They  snool  me  sair,  and  baud  me  down,  239. 

Thickest  night,  surround  my  dwelling,  205. 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  Fair,  287. 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessie  fair,  148. 


336 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


This  day  Time  winds  th'  exhausted  chain,  123. 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns,  117. 

Tho'  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part,  205. 

Tho'  fickle  Fortune  has  deceived  me,  302. 

Tho'  women's  minds  like  winter  winds,  228, 

Thou  flatt'riiiK'  mark  of  friendship  kind,  171. 

Thou  Fool,  in  thy  phaeton  towering,  191. 

Thou  hast  left  nie  ever,  Jamie,  287. 

Thou,  Liberty,  thou  art  my  theme,  157. 

Thou  ling'ring  star  with  less'ning  ray,  226. 

Thou  of  an  independent  mind,  192. 

Thou 's  welcome,  wean  !  Mishanter  fa'  me,  113. 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever'st,  88. 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead,  80,  120. 

Throut^h  and  through  th'  insi)ir^d  leaves,  184. 

'T  is  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young,  fair  Friend, 
148. 

To  daunton  me,  to  dannton  me,  212. 

To  Kiddell,  much-lamented  man,  192. 

To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go,  fair  maids,  202. 

To  you.  Sir,  this  summons  I  've  sent,  131. 

True  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o'  the  Yar- 
row, 276. 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza,  242. 

'T  was  even :  the  dewy  fields  were  green,  305. 

'T  was  in  that  place  o  Scotland's  isle,  2. 

'T  was  in  the  Seventeen  Hunder  year,  166. 

'T  was  na  her  bonie  blue  e'e  was  my  ruin,  314, 

'T  was  on  a  Monday  morning,  253. 

'T  was  where  the  birch  and  sounding  thong  are 
ply'd,  322. 

Up  and  waur  them  a',  Jamie,  161, 
Up  in  the  morning 's  no  for  me,  206. 
Up  wi'  the  carls  of  Dysart,  248. 
Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  mom,  9. 
Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light,  23. 

Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear 's  in  my  e'e,  260. 

Wae  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursed  leaf,  172. 

Wantonness  for  evermair,  253. 

Wap  and  rowe,  wap  and  rowe,  257. 

We  are  nae  fou,  we  're  nae  that  fou,  229. 

We  cam  na  here  to  view  your  warks,  185. 

We  grant  they  're  thine,  those  beauties  all,  187. 

We  'II  hide  the  cooper  behint  the  door,  254. 

We  '11  o'er  the  water,  we  'U  o'er  the  sea,  212, 

W'e  're  a'  noddin,  264. 

Weary  fa'  you,  Duncan  Gray,  209. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r,  38. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie,  31. 

Wee  WiUie  Gray  an'  liis  leather  wallet,  264. 

Wha  in  a  brulyie,  260. 

Wha  is  that  at  my  boAver  door,  236. 

Wha  wiU  buy  my  trogg^n,  167. 

Wham  will  we  send  to  London  town,  164, 

Whare  are  you  gaim,  my  bonie  lass,  228, 

Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad,  229, 

What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousie  bitch,  132. 

What  can  a  young  lassie,  233. 

What  dost  thon  in  that  mansion  fair,  189, 

What  man  could  esteem,  or  what  woman  could 

love,  196. 
What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o'  Lon'on, 

150. 
What  will  I  do  gin  my  hoggie  die,  206, 
When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure,  68, 


When  by  a  generous  Public's  kind  acclaim,  149, 
When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street,  90. 
When  chUl  November's  surly  blast,  36, 
When  dear  Clarinda,  matchless  fair,  138, 
Wlien  Death's  dark  stream  I  ferry  o'er,  186, 
When  Eighty-five  was  seven  months  auld,  115, 
When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle,  304, 
When  first  I  saw  fair  Jeanie's  face,  311. 
When  first  my  brave  Johnie  lad  came  to  this 

town,  232. 
When  Guilford  good  our  pilot  stood,  75. 
When  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thy  charms,  213, 
When  Januar'  wind  was  blawin  cauld,  256, 
When  Lascelles  thought  fit  from  this  world  to 

depart,  197. 
When  lyart  leaves  bestrow  the  yirdLl02, 
When  Morine,  deceas'd,   to   the   DevU  went 

down,  189. 
When  Nature  her  great  masterpiece  design'd, 

140, 
When  o'er  the  hiU  the  eastern  star,  298, 
When  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers,  218, 
When  the  drums  do  beat,  220. 
When  wild  War's  deadly  blast  was  blawn,  272. 
Where  are  the  joys  I  hae  met  in  the  morning, 

291. 
Wliere,  braving  angry  winter's  storms,  214. 
Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea,  248. 
Wherefore  sighing  art  thou,  Phillis,  258, 
While  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cow'r,  126. 
While  briers  an'  woodbines  budding  green,  44, 
While  Europe's  eye  is  fix'd  on  mighty  things, 

151, 
While  larks  with  little  wing,  314. 
While  new-ca'd  kye  rowte  at  the  stake,  46, 
While  virgin  Spring  by  Eden's  flood,  93. 
While  winds  frae  a£E  Ben-Lomond  blaw,  32. 
Whoe'er  he  be  that  sojourns  here,  185. 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  O  reader,  know,  54. 
Whose  is  that  noble,  dauntless  brow,  173. 
Why  ain  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene,  69. 
Why  should  we  idly  waste  our  prime,  319. 
Why,  why  tell  thy  lover,  314. 
Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake,  97, 
Wi'  braw  new  branks  in  mickle  pride,  131. 
Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary,  304, 
Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed,  244. 
Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  259. 
Wishfully  I  look  and  languish,  237. 
With  -lEsop's  lion,  Burns  says :  Sore  I  feel,  186. 
With  Pegasus  upon  a  day,  177. 
Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O,  205. 
Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie,  144, 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around,  288. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonie  Doon,  243, 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon,  310. 

Ye  gallants  bright,  I  rede  you  right,  217. 

Ye  hypocrites !  are  these  your  pranks,  190. 

Ye  Irish  lords,  ye  knights  an'  squires,  6. 

Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  242, 

Ye  maggots,  feed  on  Nicol's  brain,  196. 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  why  aU  this  sneer- 
ing, 190, 

Ye  sons  of  old  Killie,  assembled  by  Willie,  306. 

Ye  true  "loyal  Natives,"  attend  to  my  soog, 
188. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


337 


Ye  've  heard  thia  while  how  I  've  been  licket, 

147. 
Yestreen  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine,  309. 
Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  moor,  214. 
Yon  wUd  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide, 

235. 
You  're  welcome  to  Despots,  178. 
You  're  welcome,  Wilhe  Stewart,  311, 


Young  Jamie,  pride  of  a'  the  plain,  253. 
Yoimg  Jockie  was  the  blythest  lad,  228. 
Young  Peggy  blooms  our  boniest  lass,  201. 
Your  billet,  fSir,  I  grant  receipt,  136. 
Your  friendship  much  can  make  me  blest, 

315. 
Your  News  and  Review,  Sir,  142. 
Yours  this  moment  I  unseal,  130. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


A  Lass  wi'  a  Tocher,  277. 

A  Kose-Bud,  by  my  Early  Walk,  213. 

Adam  Armour's  Prayer,  115. 

Additional  Lines  at  Stirling,  186. 

Additions  in  the  Edinburgh  Edition  of 

1787,  53. 
Additions  in  the  Edotbobgh  Edition  of 

1793,  80, 
Address  of  Beelzebub,  153. 
Address  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle,  152. 
Address  to  a  Haggis,  72. 
Address  to  Edinburgh,  73. 
Address  to  the  Deil,  12. 
Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thomson,  93. 
Address  to  the  Toothache,  118. 
Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  65. 
Adown  Winding  Nith,  276. 
Ae  Fond  Kiss,  237. 
Against  the  Earl  of  Galloway  (Four  Epigrams), 

189. 
Ah,  Chloris,  313. 

Ah,  Woe  is  me,  my  Mother  Dear,  171. 
Aiken,  Robert,  Esq.,  Epitaph  for,  54. 
Ainshe,  Miss,  in  Church,  On,  185. 
Allan  Stream,  By,  278. 
Altar  of  Independence,  For  an,  192. 
Altho'  he  has  left  me,  315. 
Amang  the  Trees,  308. 
An  ye  were  Dead,  Guidman,  O,  251. 
And  I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  213. 
Apology  to  John  Syme,  192. 
Apostrophe  to  Fergusson,  170. 
Armour's,  Adam,  Prayer,  115. 
Artist,  To  an,  184. 
As  down  the  Bum,  316. 
As  I  cam  doon  the  Banks  o'  Nith,  162. 
As  I  came  o'er  the  Cairney  Mount,  258. 
As  I  stood  by  yon  Roofless  Tower,  250. 
At  Brownhill  Inn,  187. 
At  Carron  Ironworks,  185. 
At  Friars  Carse  Hermitage,  192. 
At  Inveraray,  185. 
At  Roslin  Inn,  184. 
At  the  Globe  Tavern,  193. 
At  the  Globe  Tavern,  Dumfries,  188. 
At  Whigham's  Inn,  Sanquhar,  186. 
Auld  Farmer's  New- Year  Morning  Salutation 

to  his  Auld  Mare,  Maggie,  The,  26. 
Auld  Lang  Syne,  251. 
Auld  Rob  Morris,  271. 
Author,  On  the,  198. 

Author's  Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer,  The,  6- 
Author's  Father,  Epitaph  for  the,  54. 
Awa',  "UTiigs,  Awa',  223. 
Ay  Waukin,  0,  217. 

Babington's.  Dr.,  Looks,  On,  191. 
Ballads  on  ilr.  Heron's  Election,  164. 


Bank  Note,  Lines  written  on  a,  172. 

Banks  o'  Doon,  The,  243. 

Banks  of  Nith,  The,  230. 

Banks  of  the  Devon,  The,  209. 

Bannocks  o'  Bear  Meal,  260. 

Bard's  Epitaph,  A,  55. 

Battle  of  Sherramuir,  The,  227. 

Beautiful  Country  Seat,  On  a,  187. 

Beelzebub,  Address  of,  153. 

Behold  the  Hour,  292. 

Behold  the  Hour  (First  Set),  312. 

Being  appointed  to  an  Excise  Division,  On,  187. 

Belles  of  Mauchline,  The,  171. 

Beware  o'  Bonie  Ann,  217. 

Birks  of  Aberfeldie,  The,  203. 

Birth  of  a  Posthumous  Child,  On  the,  99. 

Birthday  Ode  for  31st  December,  1787,  153. 

Blacklock,  Dr.,  Epistle  to,  144. 

Blair,  Sir  James  Hunter,  Elegy  on  the  Death 

of,  173. 
Blue-eyed  Lassie,  The,  230. 
Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  Hill,  277. 
Blythe  was  She,  211. 
Bonie  Bell,  247. 

Bonie  Briar-Bush,  There  grows  a,  261. 
Bonie  Dundee,  201. 
Bonie  Lad  that 's  far  awa,  The,  234. 
Bonie  Lass  of  Albanie,  The,  307. 
Bonie  Lesley,  Saw  ye,  275. 
Bonie  Moor-Hen,  The,  306. 
Bonie  Wee  Thing,  236. 
Book-Worms,  The,  184. 
Braes  o'  Ballochmyle,  The,  225. 
Braving  Angry  Winter's  Storms,  Where,  214. 
Braw  Lads  o'  Galla  Water,  271. 
Brigs  of  Ayr,  Tlie,  59. 
Brownhill  Inn,  At,  187. 
Burnet,  Miss,  of  Monboddo,  Elegy  on  the  Late, 

176. 
Bums,  Miss,  Under  the  Portrait  of,  185. 
Bushby,  John,  of  Tinwald  Downs,  On,  198. 
Bushby's,  John,  Lamentation,  166. 
By  Allan  Stream,  278. 

Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes,  224. 

Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes  (Second  Set),  292. 

Caimey  Mount,  As  I  came  o'er  the,  258. 

Caledonia,  310. 
!   Calf,  The,  65. 
;  Can  ye  Labour  Lea,  O,  248. 

Canst  thou  leave  me,  278. 

Captain's  Lady,  The,  220, 

Captive  Ribband,  The,  222. 

Cardin  o't,  The,  255. 

Cares  o'  Love,  The,  183. 

Carl,  an  the  King  come,  221. 

Carron  Ironworks,  At,  185. 

Caatle  Gordon,  121. 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


339 


Cauld  is  the  E'enin  Blast,  269. 

Chalmers',  Willie,  Sweetheart,  To,  130. 

Charlie,  he  's  my  Darling,  253. 

Charming  Month,  It  was  the,  281. 

Chevalier's  Lament,  The,  308. 

Chloris,  Ah,  313. 

Chloris,  On,  190. 

Clarinda,  To,  with  a  Pair  of  Wine-Glasses,  139. 

Clarinda,  Mistress  of  my  Soul,  215. 

Cock  up  your  Beaver,  232. 

Collier  Laddie,  My,  240. 

Come,  let  me  take  thee,  279. 

Comin  thro'  the  Rye,  252. 

Commemoration  of  Rodney's  Victory,  On  the, 

158. 
Commissary  Goldie's  Brains,  On,  188. 
Composed  in  Spring,  77. 
Contented  w'  Little,  279. 
Cooper  o'  Cuddy,  The,  254. 
Corn  Rigs,  51. 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The,  28. 
Court  of  Session,  Extempore  in  the,  183. 
Craigiebum  Wood,  231. 
Creech,  William,  On,  181. 
Creech,  William,  Publisher,   Lament  for  the 

Absence  of,  118. 
Cruickshank,  Miss,  To,  95. 
Cruickshank,  William,  A.  M.,  For,  196. 
Cunningham,  Alex.,  To,  140. 

Daer,  Lord,  Lines  on  meeting  with,  117. 

Daisy,  To  a  Mountain,  38. 

Davie,  To.    Second  Epistle,  127. 

Davie,  a  Brother  Poet,  Epistle  to,  32. 

Davies,  Lovely,  237. 

Davies,  Miss,  On,  187. 

Day  returns.  The,  219. 

De  Peyster,  Colonel,  To,  147. 

Dean  of  the  Faculty,  The,  168. 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook,  56. 

Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor  Mailie,  The 

14. 
Death  of  a  Favourite  Child,  On  the,  323. 
Dedication,  A,  41. 
Deil,  Address  to  the.  12. 
Deil  's  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman,  The,  249. 
Delia,  321. 

Deluded  Swain,  the  Pleasure,  273. 
Departed  Regency  Bill,  Ode  to  the,  154. 
Departed  Year  1788,  Elegy  on  the,  120. 
Despondency,  35. 

Destruction  of  Dmmlanrig  Woods,  On  the,  318. 
Deuk's  dang  o'er  my  Daddie.  The,  249. 
Does  Haughty  Gaul  Invasion  threat,  266. 
Dove,  John,  Innkeeper,  On,  195. 
Dream,  A,  18. 

Drumlanrig  Woods,  On  the  Destruction  of,  318. 
Duchess  of  Gordon's  Reel  Dancing,  On  the,  121. 
Dnmourier's.  General,  Desertion,  On,  177. 
Duncan  Davison,  207. 
Duncan  Gray,  209. 
Duncan  Gray  (Second  Set\  272. 
Dundas.  Lord  President,  On  the  Death  of,  174. 
Dusty  Miller,  The,  207. 

Earl  of    Galloway,  Against  the.    (Four   Epi- 
grams), 189. 


Earl  of  Glencaim,  James,  Lament  for,  87. 
Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer,  The  Author's,  6. 
Edinburgh,  Address  to,  73. 
Election,  The,  165. 

Election  Ballad  at  close  of  the  Contest  for  Re- 
presenting the  Dumfries  Burghs,  1790, 162. 
Election  Ballad  for  Westerha',  161. 
Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  82. 
Elegy  on  Stella,  316. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Ruisseaux,  172. 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter  Blair, 

173. 
Elegy  on  the  Departed  Year  1788,  120. 
Elegy  on  the  Late  Miss  Burnet  of  Monhoddo. 

176. 
Elegy  on  Willie  NicoFs  Mare,  175. 
Eliza,  Fair,  242. 

Elphinstone's  Translation  of  Martial,  On,  184. 
Epigrams. 

Additional  Lines  at  Stirling,  186. 

Against  the  Earl  of   Galloway  (Four  Epi- 
grams), 189. 

Apology  to  John  Syme,  192. 

At  Brownhill  Inn,  187. 

At  Carron  Ironworks,  185. 

At  Friars  Carse  Hermitage,  192. 

At  Inveraray,  185. 

At  Roslin  Inn.  184. 

At  the  Globe  Tavern,  Dumfries,  188. 

At  Whigham's  Inn,  Sanquhar,  186. 

Book- Worms,  The,  184. 

Extempore  in  the  Court  of  Session,  183. 

For  an  Altar  of  Independence,  192. 

Highland  Welcome,  A,  186. 

In  a  Lady's  Pocket  Book,  188. 

In  Lamington  Kirk,  187. 

Keekin  Glass,  The,  188. 

Kirk  and  State  Excisemen,  190. 

On  a  Beautiful  Country  Seat,  187. 

On  a  Goblet,  192. 

On  a  Henpecked  Squire,  53,  54. 

On  Andrew  Turner,  191. 

On  being  appointed  to  an  Excise  Di'\*isioD,  187. 

On  Captain  Francis  Grose,  186. 

On  Chloris,  190. 

On  Commissary  Goldie's  Brains,  18S. 

On  Dr.  BabLngton's  Looks.  191. 

On  Elphinstone's  Translation  of  Martial,  184. 

On  Johnson's  Opinion  of  Hampden,  184. 

On  Maria  RiddeU,  189. 

On  Marriage,  193. 

On  Miss  Ainslie  in  Church,  185. 

On  Miss  Davies,  187. 

On  Miss  Fontenelle,  189. 

On  Miss  Jean  Scott,  186. 

On  Mr.  James  Gracie,  192. 

On  seeing  Mrs.  Kemblc  in  Yarico,  191. 

On   seeing  the  Royal   Palace  at  Stirling  in 
Ruins,  185. 

On  Thanksgiving  for  a  National  Victory,  190. 

On  the  Laird  of  Laggan,  189. 

Pinned  to  Mrs.  Walter  Riddell's  Carriage, 
190. 

Reply  to  the  Threat  of  a  Censorious  Critic, 
186. 

Solemn  League  and  Covenant,  The,  191. 

To  an  Artist,  184. 


340 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


To  Dr.  Maxwell,  190. 

To  John  Syme  of  Ryedale,  191. 

To  the  Beautiful  Miss  Eliza  J n,  190. 

To  the  Hon.  Wm.  K.  Maule  of  Panniure,  191. 

Toadeater,  The,  187. 

Tyrant  Wife,  The,  187. 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Miss  Bums,  185. 

Versicles  on  Sign-Posts,  18(j. 

Versicles  to  Jessie  Lewars,  192. 

Ye  True  Loyal  Natives,  188. 
Epistles  aj.-d  Notes. 

Extempore  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  131. 

Impromptu  to  Captain  Riddell,  142. 

Remorseful  Apology,  147. 

Reply  to  a  Note  from  Captain  Riddell.  142. 

Reply  to  a  Trimming  Epistle  received  from 
a  Tailor,  132. 

Reply  to  an  Invitation,  130. 

Sonnet  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintry, 
144. 

Sylvander  to  Clarinda,  138. 

To  a  Gentleman,  145. 

To  a  Young  Friend,  39. 

To  Alex.  Cunningham,  140. 

To  an  Old  Sweetheart,  131. 

To  Clarinda,  with  a  Pair  of  Wine-Glasses,  139. 

To  Collector  Mitchell,  147. 

To  Colonel  De  Peyster,  147. 

To  Davie,  a  Brother  Poet,  32. 

To  Davie,    Second  Epistle,  127. 

To  Dr.  Blacklock,  144. 

To  Dr.  Mackenzie,  130. 

To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Mauchline,  129. 

To  Hugh  Parker,  139. 

To  J.  Lapraik,  44. 

To  J.  Lapraik.    Second  Epistle,  46. 

To  J.  Lapraik.    Third  Epistle,  125. 

To  James  Smith,  15. 

To  James  Tennant  of  Glenconner,  142. 

To  John  Goldie,  125. 

To  John  Kennedy.    A  Farewell,  130. 

To  John  Kennedy,  Dumfries  House,  128. 

ToJohnM'Murdo,  143. 

To  John  Maxwell,  Esq.,  of  Terraughtie,  146. 

To  John  Rankine,  50. 

To  John  Rankine,  in  Reply  to  an  Ajmounce- 
ment,  124. 

To  Major  Lo^an,  133. 

To  Miss  Femer,  137. 

To  Miss  Isabella  Macleod,  137. 

To  Miss  Jessie  Lewars,  148. 

To  Mr.  McAdam  of  Craigen-Gillan,  129. 

To  Mr.  Renton  of  Lamerton,  136. 

To  Peter  Stuart,  146. 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintry,  Request- 
ing a  Favour,  140. 

To  Robert  Graham  of  Fintry,  Esq.,  85. 

To  Symon  Gray,  137. 

To  the  Gmd^vife  of  Wauchope  House,  134. 

To  the  Rev.  John  M'Math.  126. 

To  William  Simpson  of  Ochiltree,  47. 

To  William  Stewart,  146. 

To  Wm.  Tytler,  Esq.,  of  Woodhonselee,  135. 

To  Willie  Chalmers*^  Sweetheart,  I'M. 
Epitaphs. 

A  Bard'a,  !Vj. 

Fop  Gabriel  Richardson,  198. 


For  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  55. 

For  Mr.  Walter  Riddell,  197. 

For  Mr.  W^illiam  Michie,  196. 

For  Robert  Aiken,  Esq.,  54. 

For  the  Author's  Father,  54. 

For  William  Cruickshank,  A.  M.,  196. 

For  William  Nicol,  195. 

On  a  Celebrated  Ruling  Elder,  54. 

On  a  Galloway  Laird,  197. 

On  a  Henpecked  Squire,  53. 

On  a  Lap-Dog,  196. 

On  a  Lady  famed  for  her  Caprice,  196. 

On  a  Noisy  Polemic,  54. 

On  a  Noted  Coxcomb,  Capt.  Wm.  Roddick, 
of  Corbiston,  197. 

On  a  Suicide,  198. 

On  a  Swearing  Coxcomb,  198. 

On  a  Wag  in  Mauchline,  195. 

On  an  Innkeeper  nicknamed  "  The  Marquis," 
198. 

On  Capt.  Lascelles,  197. 

On  Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  83. 

On  Grizzel  Grimme,  198. 

On  Holy  Willie,  194. 

On  James  Grieve,  Laird  of  Boghead,  Tar- 
bolton,  193. 

On  John  Bushby  of  Tinwald  Downs,  198. 

On  John  Dove,  Innkeeper,  195. 

On  John.  Rankine,  194. 

On  Robert  Fergusson,  195. 

On  Robert  Muir,  196. 

On  Tam  the  Chapman,  194. 

On  the  Author,  198. 

On  Wee  Johnie,  54. 

On  Wm.  Graham  of  Mossknowe,  198. 

On  Wm.  Muir  in  Tarbolton  MiH,  194. 
Eppie  Adair,  227. 
Eppie  Macnab,  My,  236. 
Esopus  to  Maria.  From.  123. 
Excise  Division,  On  being  appointed  to  an,  18T. 
Extempore  in  the  Court  of  Session,  183. 
Extempore  to  Gravin  Hamilton,  131. 

Fair  Eliza,  242. 

Fairest  Maid  on  Devon  Banks,  288. 

Fall  of  Fyers  near  Loch  Ness,  Lines  on  the.  98. 

Farewell,  The,  172. 

Farewell,  thou  Stream,  279. 

Farewell  to  the  Brethren  of  St.  James's  Lodge, 

The,  53. 
Farmer's  New- Year  Morning  Salutation  to  hia 

Auld  Mare,  Maggie.  The  Auld,  2(i. 
Favourite  ChUd,  On  the  Death  of  a,  323. 
Favourite  Child,  On  the  Illness  of  a,  323. 
Fergusson,  Apostrophe  to,  170. 
Fergusson,  Lines  on,  176. 
Fergusson,  Robert,  Cn,  195. 
Ferrier,  iliss.  To,  137. 
Fete  Champetre^The,  159. 
Fickle  Fortune,  Tho',  302. 
First  Psalm,  Paraphrase  of  the,  70. 
Five  Carlins,  The,  160. 
Flowery  Banks.  Ye,  310. 
Flowing  Locks,  Her,  305. 
FonteneDe,  Miss.  On,  189. 
For  an  Altar  of  Independence,  192. 
For  Gabriel  Richardfion,  198. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


341 


For  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Epitaph,  55. 

For  Mr.  Walter  RiddeU,  197. 

For  Mr.  William  Michie,  196. 

For  Robert  Aiken,  Esq.,  Epitaph,  54. 

For  the  Author's  Father,  Epitaph,  5-1. 

For  the  ISake  o'  ISomebody,  254. 

For  thee  is  Laughing  Nature,  315. 

For  William  Cruickshauk,  A.  M.,  196. 

For  William  Nicol,  195. 

Forlorn,  my  Love,  292. 

Fox,  Right  Hon.  C.  J.,  Inscribed  to  the,  156. 

Frae  the  Friends  and  Lands  I  love,  231. 

Fragment,  A :  When  Guilford  Good,  75. 

Friars  Carse  Hermitage,  At,  192. 

Friars  Carse  Hermitage,  Verses  in,  120. 

Friars  Carse  Hermitage  on  Nithside,  Written 

in,  80. 
From  Esopus  to  Maria,  123, 

Gallant  Weaver,  The,  248. 

Galloway,  Earl  of,  Against  the.  (Four  Epi- 
grams), 189. 

Galloway  Laird,  On  a,  197. 

Gard'ner  wi'  his  Paidle,  The,  218. 

Gentleman,  To  a,  145. 

Glenriddell's  Fox  breaking  his  Chain,  On,  157. 

Globe  Tavern,  At  the,  193. 

Globe  Tavern,  Dumfries,  At  the,  188. 

Gloomy  December,  Thou,  263. 

Gloomy  Night  is  gathering  fast.  The,  78. 

Goblet,  On  a,  192. 

Goldie,  John,  To,  125. 

Gordon's,  Duchess  of.  Reel  Dancing,  On  the, 
121. 

Graces,  193. 

Gracie,  Mr.  James,  On,  192. 

Graham,  Miss,  of  Fintry,  Inscription  to,  146. 

Graham,  Robert,  Esq.,  of  Fintry,  Sonnet  to,  144. 

Graham,  Robert,  Esq.,  of  Fintry,  To,  Request- 
ing a  Favour,  140. 

Graham,  Robert,  of  Fintry,  Esq.,  To,  85. 

Graham,  Wm.,  of  Mossknowe,  On,  198. 

Gray,  Symon,  To,  137. 

Green  grow  the  Rashes.  0,  76. 

Grieve,  James,  Laird  of  Boghead,  Tarbolton, 
On,  193.  _ 

Grizzel  Grimme,  On,  198. 

Grose,  Captain,  On,  122. 

Grose,  Captain  Francis,  On,  186. 

Grose's,  Captain,  Peregrinations  thro'  Scotland, 
On  the  Late,  94. 

Groves  o'  Sweet  Myrtle,  Their,  285. 

Guid  Ale  comes,  O,  265. 

Guidwife,  count  the  Lawin,  232. 

Guidwlfe  of  Wauchope  House,  To  the,  134. 

Guilford  Good,  When,  75. 

Had  I  a  Cave,  280. 

Had  1  the  Wyte,  252. 

Haggis,  Address  to  a,  72. 

Halloween,  23. 

Hamilton,  Gavin,  Extempore  to,  131, 

Hamilton,  Gavin,  Esq.,  A  Dedication  to,  41. 

Hamilton,  Gavin,  Esq.,  Epitaph  for^55. 

Hamilton,  Gavin,  Esq.,  Mauchline,  To,  129. 

Haughty  Gaul  Invasion  threat,  Does,  266. 

Henderson,  Captain  Matthew,  Elegy  on,  82. 


Her  Flowing  Locks,  305. 

Here  is  the  Glen,  273. 

Here  's  a  Bottle,  307. 

Here  's  a  Health,  280. 

Here 's  a  Health  to  them  that 's  awa',  312. 

Here  's  his  Health  in  Water,  200. 

Here  's  to  thy  Health,  2G1. 

Heron's,  Mr.,  Election,  Ballads  on,  164. 

Hey,  Ca'  thro',  248. 

Highland  Balou,  The,  260. 

Highland  Harry,  216. 

Highland  Laddie,  259. 

Highland  Lassie,  O,  My,  204. 

Highland  Mary,  287. 

Highland  Welcome,  A,  186. 

Highland  Widow's  Lament,  The,  263. 

Hoggie,  My,  206. 

Holy  Fair,  The,  9. 

Holy  Tulyie,  The  Twa  Herds :  or.  The,  107. 

Holy  Willie,  On,  194. 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer,  109. 

Hornbook,  Death  and  Dr.,  .56. 

How  can  my  Poor  Heart,  293. 

How  Cruel  are  the  Parents,  281. 

How  Lang  and  Dreary  is  the  Night.  211. 

Humble  Petition  of  Bruar  Water.  The,  96. 

Husband,  Husband,  cease  your  Strife,  261. 

I  do  confess  thou  art  sae  Fair,  234. 

I  dream'd  I  lay,  207. 

I  hae  a  Wife  o'  my  Ain,  238. 

I  hae  been  at  Crookieden,  235. 

I  '11  ay  ca'  in  by  Yon  Town,  257. 

I  '11  go  and  be  a  Sodger,  170. 

I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  And,  213. 

I  love  my  Love  in  Secret,  216. 

I  'm  o'er  Yoimg  to  marry  vet,  203. 

Illness  of  a  Favourite  Child,  On  the,  323. 

Improbables,  .UH. 

Impromptu  on  Mrs.  Riddell's  Birthday,  178. 

Impromptu  to  Captain  RiddeU,  142. 

In  a  Lady's  Pocket  Book,  188. 

In  Laming^ton  Kirk,  187. 

In  Prospect  of  Death,  Stanzas  written,  69. 

In  Simmer,  when  the  Hay  was  mawn,  241. 

In  vain  would  Prudence,  183. 

Innkeeper  nicknamed  "  The  Marquis,"  On  an, 

198. 
Inscribed  on  a  Work  of  Hannah  More's,  171. 
Inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox,  156. 
Inscription  (to  Chloris),  148. 
Inscription  to  Miss  Graham  of  Fintry,  146. 
Interpolations,  315. 
Inventory,  The,  114. 
Inveraray,  At,  185. 
Is  there  for  Honest  Poverty,  294. 
It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  Bonie  Face,  235. 
It  was  a'  for  our  Rightfu'  King,  262. 
It  was  the  Charming  Month,  281. 

Jacobites  by  Name,  Ye,  242. 

James,  Earl  of  Glencaim,  Lament  for,  87. 

Jamie,  come  try  me,  210. 

ilockie  's  ta'en  the  Parting  Kiss,  268. 

John  Anderson  my  Jo,  223. 

John  Barleycorn,  73. 

John  Bushby's  Lamentation,  166, 


342 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


John,  come  kiss  me  now,  O,  232. 
Johnson's  "  Musical  Museum  "  and  Thom- 
son's "Scottish  Aiks,"  Songs  from,  199. 
Johiisou's  Opinion  of  Hampden,  On,  1S4. 

J n,  Miss  Eliza,  To  the  Beautiful,  190. 

Jollv  Bessrars,  The,  102. 
Joyful  Widower,  The,  319. 
Jumpin  John,  206. 

Keekin  Glass,  The,  188, 

Kellybum  Braes,  245. 

Kemble,  Mrs.,  in  Yarico,  On  seeing,  191. 

Kenmure  's  on  and  awa,  Willie,  0,  2o9. 

Kennedy,  John,  To.     A  Farewell,  130. 

Kennedy,  John,  Dumfries  House,  To,  128. 

Killieerankie,  229. 

Kirk  and  State  Excisemen,  190. 

Kirk's  Alarm,  The,  110. 

Kiss,  To  a,  321. 

Laddie,  lie  near  me,  218. 

Lady  famed  for  her  Caprice,  Monody  on  a,  196. 

Lady  Mary  Ann,  244. 

Lady  Oldie,  Honest  Lucky,  208. 

Lady's  Pocket  Book,  In  a,  188. 

Laird  of  Laggan,  On  the,  189. 

Lament,  The,  34. 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencaim,  87. 

Lament  for  the  Absence  of  William  Creech, 

Publisher,  118. 
Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  84. 
Lamington  Kirk,  In,  187. 
Landlady,  count  the  Lawin,  210. 
Lap-Dog,  On  a,  196. 
Lapraik,  J.,  Epistle  to,  44. 
Lapraik,  J.,  Second  Epistle  to,  46. 
Lapraik,  J.,  To.    Third  Epistle,  126. 
Lascelles,  Capt.,  On,  197. 
Lass  o'  Ballochmyle,  The,  305. 
Lass  o'  Ecclefechan,  The,  254. 
Lass  of  Cessnock  Banks,  The,  301. 
Lass  that  made  the  Bed,  The,  256. 
Lass  wi'  a  Tocher,  A,  277. 
Lassie  wi'  the  Lint-white  Locks,  289. 
Last  May  a  Braw  Wooer,  282. 
Lay  thy  Loof  in  mine,  Lass,  0,  269. 
Lazy  Mist,  The,  220. 
Lea-Riff,  The,  298. 
Leave  Novels,  0,  303. 
Leeze  me  on  my  Spinnin- Wheel,  O,  240. 
Let  Loove  sparkle,  316. 
Let  rae  in  this  ae  Night,  0,  295. 
Let  not  Women  e'er  complain,  273. 
Lewars,  Jessie,  Versicles  to,  192. 
Lewars,  Miss  Jessie,  To,  148. 
Lines  on  Fergnsson,  176. 
Lines  on  meeting  with  Lord  Daer,  117. 
Lines  on  the  Fall  of  Fyers  near  Loch  Ness,  98. 
Lines  to  Sir  John  Whitefoord,  Bart.,  88. 
Lines  written  on  a  Bank  Note,  172. 
Logan,  Major,  To,  133. 
Logan,  Miss,  To,  72. 
Logan  Water,  290. 
Long,  Long  the  Night,  290. 
Lord  Gregory,  274. 
Louis,  what  reek  I  by  thee,  252. 
Louse,  To  a,  43. 


Lovely  Davies,  237. 

Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness,  The,  250. 

Lovely  Polly  Stewart,  259. 

M'Adam,  Mr.,  of  Craigen-Gillan,  To,  129. 

Mackenzie,  Dr.,  To,  130. 

Macleod,  Miss  Isabella,  To,  137. 

M'Leod,  John,  Esq.,  On  reading  in  a  News- 
paper the  Death  of  ,96. 

M-Math,  Rev.  John,  To  the,  126. 

M'Murdo,  John,  On,  178. 

M'Murdo,  John,  To,  143, 

MTherson's  Farewell,  203. 

Mailie,  The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor, 
14. 

Mailie's  Elegy,  Poor,  15. 

Mally  's  Meek,  Mally  's  Sweet,  270. 

Man  was  made  to  mourn,  36. 

Mark  Yonder  Pomp,  294. 

Marriage,  On,  193. 

Mary  Morison,  299, 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Lament  of,  84. 

Masonic  Song,  306. 

Mauchline,  The  Belles  of,  171. 

Mauchline  Lady,  The,  303. 

Mauchline  Wedding,  A,  114. 

Maule,  Hon.  Wm.  R.,  of  Panmure,  To  the, 
191. 

Maxwell,  Dr.,  To.,  190. 

Maxwell,  John,  Esq,,  of  Terraughtie,  To,  146, 

May,  thy  Mom,  O,  258. 

Meg  o'  the  Mill,  268. 

Meg  o'  the  Mill  (Second  Set),  313 

Merry  hae  I  been,  O,  224. 

Michie,  Mr.  William,  For,  196. 

Mitchell,  Collector,  To,  147. 

Monody  on  a  Lady  famed  for  her  Caprice,  196. 

Montgomerie's  Peggy,  300. 

More's,  Hannah,  inscribed  on  a  Work  of,  171. 

Morison,  Mary,  299. 

Mother's  Lament.  A,  225. 

Mountain  Daisy,  To  a,  38. 

Mouse,  To  a,  31. 

Muir,  Robert,  On.  196. 

Muir,  Wm.,  in  Tarbolton  Mill,  On,  194. 

Musing  on  the  Roaring  Ocean,  211. 

My  Chloris,  mark,  288. 

My  Collier  Laddie,  240. 

My  Eppie  Macnab.  236. 

My  Father  was  a  Farmer,  302. 

My  Heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  223. 

My  Highland  Lassie,  O,  204. 

My  Hoggie,  206. 

My  Lord  a-hunting,  267. 

My  Love,  she 's  but  a  Lassie  yet,  219. 

My  Nanie,  O,  76. 

My  Nanie  's  awa,  283. 

My  Peggy's  Face,  my  Peggy's  Form,  268. 

My  Tocher  's  the  Jewel,  232. 

My  Wife  's  a  Winsome  Wee  Thing,  298. 

My  Wife  she  dang  me,  O  ay,  265. 

Nature's  Law,  116. 

New  Psalm  for  the  Chapel  of  Kilmarnock,  A, 

155. 
New  Year's  Day,  1791,  122. 
News,  Lassies,  News,  There  's,  269. 


I 


1 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


343 


Nicol,  William,  For,  195. 

Nicol's,  Willie,  Mare,  Elegy  on,  175. 

Night  was  ytill.  The,  306. 

Ninetieth  Psalm,  Versified,  The,  71. 

Nithsdale's  Welcome  Hame,  241. 

No  Churchman  am  I,  78. 

No  Cold  Approach,  315. 

Noisy  Polemic,  Epitaph  on  a,  54. 

Noted  Coxcomb,  On  a,  197. 

Now  Rosy  May,  283. 

Now  Spring  has  clad,  284. 

O,  an  ye  were  Dead,  Guidman,  251. 

O,  ay  my  Wife  she  dang  me,  265. 

O,  can  ye  labour  Lea,  248. 

O,  for  Ane-and-Twenty,  Tarn,  239. 

O,  Guid  Ale  comes,  265. 

O  John,  come  kiss  me  now,  232. 

O,  Kenmure  's  on  and  awa,  WiUie,  239. 

O,  lay  thy  Loof  in  mine,  Lass,  269. 

O,  leave  Novels,  303. 

O,  leeze  me  on  my  Spinnin- Wheel,  240. 

O,  let  me  in  this  ae  Night,  295. 

O  May,  thy  Morn,  258. 

O,  Merry  hae  I  been,  224. 

O,  once  I  lov'd  a  Bonie  Lass,  266. 

O  PhUIy,  Happy  be  that  Day,  295, 

O  Poortith  Cauld,  274. 

O,  saw  ye  my  Dear,  my  Philly,  314. 

O,  stay.  Sweet  Warbling  Wood-Lark,  275. 

O  steer  her  up,  an'  baud  her  Gaun,  264. 

0,  that  I  had  ne'er  been  married,  270. 

O,  this  is  no  my  Ain  Lassie,  284. 

O  Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  Day,  214. 

O,  wat  ye  wha  's  in  yon  Town,  257. 

O,  wat  ye  wha  that  lo'es  me,  284. 

O,  were  I  on  Parnassus  Hill,  222, 

O,  were  my  Love,  296. 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast,  315. 

O,  whistle  an'  I  'U  come  to  ye,  my  Lad,  202. 

Ode  for  General  Washington's  Birthday,  158. 

Ode,  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Oswald  of 

Auchencruive,  81. 
Ode  to  the  Departed  Regency  Bill,  154. 
O'er  the  Water  to  Charlie,  212. 
Of  a'  the  Airts,  221. 
Old  Sweetheart,  To  an,  131. 
On  a  Bank  of  Flowers,  218. 
On  a  Beautiful  Country  Seat,  187. 
On  a  Celebrated  Ruling  Elder,  Epitaph,  54. 
On  a  Galloway  Laird,  197. 
On  a  Goblet,  192. 
On  a  Lap-Dog,  196. 
On  a  Noisy  Polemic,  Epitaph,  54. 
On  a  Noted  Coxcomb,  197. 
On  a  Scotch  Bard,  40. 
On  a  Suicide,  198. 
On  a  Swearing  Coxcomb,  198. 
On  a  Wag  in  Mauchlinei  195. 
On  an  Innkeeper  nicknamed  "The  Marquis," 

198, 
On  Andrew  Turner,  191. 

On  being  appointed  to  an  Excise  Division,  187. 
On  Captain  Francis  Grose,  186, 
On  Captain  Grose,  122. 
On  Capt.  Lascelles,  197, 
On  Chloria,  190, 


On  Commissary  Goldie's  Brains,  188, 

On  Dr.  Babington's  Looks,  191. 

(hi  Elphinstoue's  Translation  of  Martial,  184. 

On  General  Dumourier's  Desertion,  177. 

On  Glenriddell's  Fox  breaking  his  Chain,  157. 

On  Grizzel  Grimme,  198. 

On  hearing  a  Thrush  sing  in  a  Morning  Walk 

in  January,  178. 
On  Holy  Willie,  194. 
On  James  Grieve,  Laird  of  Boghead,  Tarbol- 

ton,  193. 
On  John  Bushby  of  Tinwald  Downs,  198. 
On  John  Dove,  Innkeeper,  195. 
On  John  M'Murdo,  178. 
On  John  Rankine,  194. 
On  Johnson's  Opinion  of  Hampden,  184. 
On  Maria  Riddell,  189. 
On  Marriage,  193. 
On  Miss  Ainslie  in  Church,  185. 
On  Miss  Davies,  187. 
On  Miss  Foutenelle,  189. 
On  Miss  Jean  Scott,  186, 
On  Mr.  James  Gracie,  192. 
On  reading  in  a  Newspaper  the  Death  of  John 

M'Leod,  Esq.,  96. 
On  Robert  Fergusson,  195. 
On  Robert  Muir,  196, 
On  Rough  Roads,  316, 

On  scaring  some  Waterfowl  in  Loch  Turit,  97. 
On  seeing  a  Wounded  Hare  limp  by  me  which 

a  Fellow  had  just  shot  at,  93. 
On  seeing  Mrs.  Kemble  in  Yarico,  191, 
On  seeing  the  Royal  Palace  at  Stirling  in  Ruins, 

185. 
On  Some  Commemorations  of  Thomson,  177. 
On  Tam  the  Chapman,  194. 
t)n  Thanksgiving  for  a  National  Victory,  190. 
On  the  Author,  198, 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Posthumous  Child,  99, 
On  the  Commemoration  of  Rodney's  Victory, 

158. 
On  the  Death  of  a  Favourite  Child,  323. 
On  the  Death  of  Lord  President  Dundas,  174, 
On  the  Destruction  of  Drunilanrig  Woods,  318. 
On  the  Duchess  of  Gordon's  Reel  Dancing,  121. 
On  the  Fall  of  Fyers  near  Loch  Ness,  Lines,  98, 
On  the  Illness  of  a  Favourite  Child,  323. 
On  the  Laird  of  Laggan,  189. 
On  the   Late   Captain  Grose's  Peregrinations 

thro'  Scotland,  SU, 
On  Wee  Johnie,  Epitaph,  54, 
On  William  Creech.  181, 
On  Wm,  Graham  of  Mossknowe.  198. 
On  Wm,  Muir  in  Tarbolton  Mill,  194, 
On  William  Smellie,  181. 
Once  I  lov'd  a  Bonie  Lass,  O,  266, 
One  Night  as  I  did  wander,  304, 
Open  the  Door  to  me,  O,  271, 
Ordination,  The,  63. 
Oswald,  Mrs.,  of  Auchencruive,  Ode,  Sacred  to 

the  Meraorv  of,  81. 
Out  over  the 'Forth,  253, 
Owl,  To  the,  321, 

Paraphrase  of  the  First  Psalm,  70. 
Parker,  Hugh,  To,  139. 
Passion's  Cry,  182. 


344 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Pastoral  Poetry,  Poem  on,  317. 

Pegasus  at  Wanlockliead,  177. 

Phillis  the  Fair,  313. 

Pliilly,  Happy  be  that  Day,  0,  295. 

Pinned  to  Mrs.  Walter  Riddell's  Carriage,  I'M. 

Ploughman,  The,  210. 

Poem  on  Pastoral  Poetry,  317. 

Poems  Chiefly  in  the  Scottish  DiaIiBCT,  1. 

Poet's  Grace,  A,  193. 

Poet's  Welcome  to  his  Love-begotten  Daughter, 

A,  113. 
Poor  Mailie,  The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of,  1-1. 
Poor  Mailie's  Eleg'y,  '[!^. 
Poortith  Cauld,  0,  274. 
Posie,  The,  242. 
Posthumous  Pieces,  102. 
Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of  Death,  A,  37. 
Prayer  :  0  Thou  Dread  Power,  70. 
Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  Violent  Anguish, 

71. 
Pretty  Peg,  313. 
Primrose,  The,  314. 

Prologue  for  Mrs.  Sutherland,  Scots,  150. 
Prologue  spoken  at  the  Theatre  of  Dumfries, 

150. 
Prologue  spoken  by  Mr.  Woods,  149. 
Psahn  for  the  Chapel  of  Kilmarnock,  A  New, 

155. 

Raging  Fortune,  .302. 

Hankine,  John,  Epistle  to,  50. 

Rankine,  John,  On,  194. 

Rankine,  John,  To,  in  Reply  to  an  Announce- 
ment, 124. 

Rantin  Dog,  the  Daddie  o't,  The,  226. 

Rattlin,  Roarin  Willie,  213. 

Raving  Winds  around  her  blowing,  210. 

Red,  Red  Rose,  A,  250. 

Reel  o'  Stumpie,  The,  257. 

Remorse,  181. 

Remorseful  Apology,  147. 

Renton,  Mr.,  of  Lamerton,  To,  136. 

Reply  to  a  Note  from  Captain  Riddell,  142. 

Reply  to  a  Trimming  Epistle  received  from  a 
Tailor,  132. 

Reply  to  an  Invitation,  130. 

Reply  to  the  Threat  of  a  Censorious  Critic,  186. 

Richardson,  Gabriel,  For,  198. 

Riddell,  Captain,  Impromptu  to,  142. 

Riddell,  Captain,  Reply  to  a  Note  from,  142. 

Riddell,  Maria,  On,  189. 

Riddell,  Robert,  of  Glenriddell,  Sonnet  on  the 
Death  of,  179. 

Riddell,  Mr.  Walter,  For,  197. 

Riddell's,  Mrs.,  Birthday,  Impromptu  on,  178. 

Riddell's,  Mrs.  Walter,  Carriage,  Pinned  to, 
190. 

Rights  of  Woman,  The,  151. 

Rob  Morris,  Auld,  271. 

Robin  Shure  in  Hairst,  266. 

Roddick,  Capt.  Wm.,  of  Corbiston,  On  a  Noted 
Coxcomb,  197. 

Rodney's  Victory,  On  the  Commemoration  of, 
158. 

Ronalds  of  the  Bennals,  The,  169. 

Rose-Bud,  by  my  Early  Walk,  A,  213. 

Roelin  Ion,  At,  184. 


Rosy  Brier,  Yon,  291. 

Rosy  May,  Now,  283. 

Rough  Roads,  On,  316. 

Royal  Palace  at  Stirling  in  Ruins,  On  seeing 

the,  ^185. 
Ruin,  To,  39. 
Ruined  Farmer,  A,  300. 
Ruling  Elder,  Epitaph  on  a  Celebrated,  54. 
Rusticity's  Ungainly  Form,  181. 

Sae  Far  Awa,  256. 

Sae  Flaxen  were  her  Ringlets,  255. 

Samson's,  Tam,  Elegy,  66. 

Saturday  Night,  The  Cotter's,  28. 

Saw  ye  Bonie  Lesley,  275. 

Saw  ye  my  Dear,  my  Philly,  0,  314. 

Scotch  Bard,  On  a,  40. 

Scotch  Drink,  4. 

Scots  Prologue  for  Mrs.  Sutherland,  150, 

Scots,  wha  hae,  285. 

Scott,  Miss  Jean,  On,  186. 

Scroggam,  265. 

Second  Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik,  46. 

Seeing  the  Royal  Palace  at  Stirling  in  Ruins, 
On,  185. 

Sensibility  how  Charming,  234. 

She 's  Fair  and  Fause,  249. 

Silver  Tassie,  The,  220. 

Simpson,  William,  of  Ochiltree,  To,  47. 

Sketch  for  an  Elegy,  182. 

Slave's  Lament,  The,  246. 

Sleep'st  thou,  297- 

Smellie,  WiUiam,  On,  181. 

Smith,  James,  Epistle  to,  15. 

Solemn  League  and  Covenant,  The,  191. 

Song :  Anna,  thy  Charms,  95. 

Song :  Composed  in  August,  52. 

Song  (Corn  Rigs),  51. 

Song  :  From  thee,  Eliza,  52. 

Song  of  Death,  The,  246. 

Songs  from  Johnson's  "  Musical  Museum" 
AND  Thomson's  "Scottish  Airs,"  199. 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Riddell  of  Glen- 
riddell, 179. 

Sonnet  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintry,  144. 

Sonnet  upon  Sonnets,  A,  180. 

Spring  has  clad.  Now,  284. 

Stanzas  written  in  Prospect  of  Death,  69. 

Stay,  my  Charmer,  205. 

Stay.  Sweet  Warbling  Wood-Lark,  O,  275. 

Stella,  Elegy  on,  316. 

Stewart,  Polly,  Lovely,  259. 

.Stewart,  William,  To,  146. 

Stewart,  WUlie,  you  're  Welcome,  311. 

Stirling,  Additional  Lines  at,  186. 

Stirling  in  Ruins,  On  seeing  the  Royal  Palace 
at,  185. 

Strathallan's  Lament,  205. 

Stuart,  Peter,  To,  146. 

Such  a  Parcel  of  Rogues  in  a  Nation,  246. 

Suicide,  On  a,  198. 

Swearing  Coxcomb,  On  a,  198. 

Sweet  Afton,  247. 

Sweet  are  the  Banks,  309. 

Sweet  fa's  the  Eve,  276. 

Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar,  216. 

Sweetest  May,  268. 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


345 


Sylvander  to  Clarinda,  138. 
Syme,  John,  Apology  to,  192. 
Syme,  John,  of  Ryedale,  To,  191. 

Tailor,  The,  261. 

TaUor  fell  thro'  the  Bed,  The,  217. 

Tarn  Glen,  230. 

Tam  o'  IShanter,  88. 

Tarn  Samson's  Elegy,  66. 

Tam  the  Chapman,  On,  184. 

Tarbolton  Lasses,  The,  Ibtt. 

Tennant,  James,  of  Glenconner,  To.  142. 

Thanksgiving  for  a  National  Victory,  On,  190. 

The  Bonie  Lad  that 's  far  awa,  234. 

The  Cardin  o  't,  255. 

The  Day  retiirns,  219. 

The  Deil  's  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman,  249. 

The  Deuk's  dang  o'er  mv  Daddie,  249. 

The  Lass  that  made  the  Bed,  256. 

The  Lazy  Mist,  220. 

The  Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness,  250. 

The  Night  was  Still,  306. 

The  Rantin  Dog,  the  Daddie  o't,  226. 

The  Tailor  feU  thro'  the  Bed,  217. 

The  Tither  Morn,  237. 

The  Weary  Pmid  o'  Tow,  238, 

Their  Groves  o'  Sweet  Myrtle,  286. 

Theniel  Menzies'  Bonie  Mary,  208. 

There  grows  a  Bonie  Brier-Bush,  261. 

There  '11    never    be    Peace    till   Jamie    comes 

Hame,  233. 
There 's  a  Youth  in  this  City,  222. 
There  's  News,  Lassies,  News,  269. 
There 's  Three  True  Guid  Fellows,  255, 
There  was  a  Bonie  Lass,  269. 
There  was  a  Lad,  304. 
There  was  a  Lass,  297. 
Thine  am  I,  287. 

This  is  no  my  Ain  Lassie,  O,  284. 
Tho'  Cruel  Fate,  205. 
Tho'  Fickle  Fortune,  302. 
Tho'  Women's  Minds,  228. 
Thomson,  Address  to  the  Shade  of.  93. 
Thomson,  On  some  Commemorations  of,  177. 
Thomson's  "Scottish  Airs."  Songs  from 

Johnson's  "Musical  Musecm  "  and.  11I9. 
Thou  Gloomy  December,  26;?. 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  287, 
Thou  Lingering  Star,  226. 
Thrush  sing  in  a  Morning  Walk  in  January,  On 

hearing,  178. 
Tibbie  Dunbar,  Sweet,  210. 
Tibbie,  I  has  seen  the  Day,  0,  214. 
Tither  Mom,  The,  2.37. 
To  a  Gentleman,  145. 
To  a  Kiss,  321. 
To  a  Louse,  43. 
To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  38. 
To  a  Mouse,  31. 
To  Alex.  Cunningham,  140. 
To  an  Artist,  184. 
To  an  Old  Sweetheart.  131. 
To  Clarinda,  with  a  Pair  of  Wine-Glaases,  139. 
To  CoUector  Mitchell,  147. 
To  Colonel  De  Peyster,  147. 
To  dannton  me,  212. 
To  Dr.  Mackenzie,  129. 


To  Dr.  MaxweU,  190. 

To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Mauchline,  129. 

To  Hugh  Parker,  139. 

To  James  Teunant  of  Glenconner,  142. 

To  John  Goldie,  125. 

To  John  Kennedy.     A  Farewell,  130. 

To  John  Kemiedy,  Dumfries  House,  128. 

To  John  M'Murdo,  143. 

To  John  Maxwell,  Esq.,  of  Terraughtie,  146. 

To  John  Rankine,  in  Reply  to  an  Announce 
ment,  124. 

To  John  Syme  of  Ryedale,  191. 

To  Major  Logan,  133. 

To  Miss  Cruiekshank,  95. 

To  Miss  Ferrier,  137. 

To  Miss  Isabella  Macleod,  137. 

To  Miss  Jessie  Lewars,  148. 

To  Miss  Logan,  72. 

To  Mr.  M'Adam  of  Craigen-Gillan,  129. 

To  Mr.  Renton  of  Lanierton,  136. 

To  Peter  Stuart,  146. 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintry,  request- 
ing a  Favour,  140. 

To  Robert  Graham  of  Fintry,  Esq.,  85. 

To  Ruin,  39. 

To  Symon  Gray,  137. 

To  the  Beautiful  Miss  Eliza  J n,  190. 

To  the  Guid  wife  of  Wauchope  House,  134. 

To  the  Hon.  Wm.  R.  Maule  of  Panmure,  191. 

To  the  Owl,  321. 

To  the  Rev,  John  M'Math,  126. 

To  the  Weaver's  gin  ye  go,  202, 

To  William  Simpson  of  Ochiltree,  47. 

To  William  Stewart,  146. 

To  Wm.  Tytler,  Esq.,  of  Woodhouselee,  135, 

To  Willie  Chalmers'  Sweetheart,  130.  / 

Toadeater,  The,  187.  / 

Toothache,  Address  to  the,  118.  ' 

Tragic  Fragment,  180. 

Tree  of  Liberty,  The,  320. 

Trogger,  The,  167. 

Turner,  Andrew,  On,  191. 

Twa  Dogs.  The,  2. 

Twa  Herds,  The :  or.  The  Holy  Tulyie,  107. 

"T  was  na  her  Bonie  Blue  E'e,  314. 

Tvrant  Wife,  The,  187. 

Tjtler,  Wm.,  Esq.,  of  Woodhouselee,  To,  135. 

Unco  Guid,  Address  to  the,  65. 
Under  the  Portrait  of  Miss  Bums,  185. 
Up  in  the  Morning  Early,  206. 

Verses  in  Friars  Carse  Hermitage,  120. 
Verses  intended  to  be  written  below  a  Noble 

Earl's  Picture,  173. 
Verses  written  with  a  Pencil  at  Kemnore,  Tay- 

mouth,  98. 
Versicles  on  Sign-Posts,  186. 
Versicles  to  Jessie  Lewars,  192, 
Vision,  The,  19, 
Vowels,  The,  322, 

Wae  is  my  Heart,  260, 

Wag  in  Mauchline,  On  a,  195, 

Wandering  Willie,  270, 

Wantonness  for  evermair,  2.'>3. 

Washington's,  General,  Birthday,  Ode  for,  158. 


546 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Wat  ye  wha  '3  in  Yon  Town,  0,  257. 

Wat  ye  wha  that  lo'es  me,  0,  284. 

Waterfowl  in  Loch  Turit,  On  scaring  some, 

i»7. 
Waukrife  Minnie,  A,  228. 
We  're  a'  noddin,  264. 
Weary  Fund  o'  Tow,  The,  238. 
Wee  Johnie,  Epitaph  on,  54. 
Wee  WiUie  Gray,  2t;i. 
Were  I  on  Parnassus  Hill,  O,  222. 
Wert  thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast,  0,  315. 
WTia  is  that  at  my  Bower  Door,  236. 
What  can  a  Young  Lassie,  233. 
When  first  I  saw,  311. 
When  Guilford  Good,  75. 
When  she  cam  ben,  she  bobbed,  239. 
When  Wild  War's  Deadly  Blast,  272. 
Where  are  the  Joys,  291. 
^ATiere,  braving  Angry  Winter's  Storms,  204. 
Wherefore  sighing  art  thou,  Phillis,  258. 
Whiiiham's  Inn,  Sanquhar,  At,  186. 
Whistle,  The,  99. 

WTiistle,  an'  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  Lad,  0,  202. 
Whistle  o'er  the  Lave  o't,  221. 
White  Cockade,  The,  225. 
Whitefoord,  Sir  John,  Bart.,  Lines  to,  88. 
Why  should  we  idly  waste  our  Prime,  319. 
Whv,  ■^hy  tell  thy  Lover,  314. 
WUd  War'8  Deadly  Blast,  When,  272. 


Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary,  304. 
Willie  brew'd  a  Peck  o'  Maut,  229. 
WiUie  Wastle,  244. 
Wilt  thou  be  mv  Dearie,  259. 
Winsome  Wee  Thing,  My  Wife  's  a,  298. 
Winter,  37. 

Winter  it  is  Past,  The,  215. 
Winter  Night,  A,  68. 
Winter  of  Life,  The,  261. 
Women's  Minds,  Tho',  228. 
Wounded  Hare,  On  seeing  a,  93. 
Written  in  Friars  Carse  Hermitage  on  Nithside. 
80. 

Ye  Flowery  Banks,  310. 

Ye  Jacobites  by  Name,  242. 

Ye  True  Loyal  Natives,  188. 

Yestreen  I  had  a  Pint  o'  Wine,  308. 

Yon  Rosy  Brier,  291. 

Yon  Wild  Mossy  Mountains,  235. 

You  're  Welcome,  Willie  Stewart,  311. 

Young  Friend,  Epistle  to  a,  39. 

Young  Highland  Rover,  The,  207. 

Young  Jamie,  253. 

Youni^  Jessie,  276, 

Young  Jockie  was  the  Blythest  Lad,  228. 

Young  Peggy,  201. 

Your  Friendship,  315. 

Youth  in  this  City,  There 's  a,  222. 


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